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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


*&vo.& 

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POEMS 


AND 


BY 


One  may  we'd  Hess  God  that  Poetry  is  in  itself  strength  and  joy,  whether  it  bt 
crowned  ly  all  mankind,  or  left  alone  in  its  own  ma^ic  hermitage," 


g0rk: 

RUDD  &  CARLETOX,  310  BROADWAY. 


MDCCCLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 
JAMES    M.    SMITH,    JR.  , 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Preface  ...•••• 

Invocation        ....... 

Death  of  the  Robin    ... 

The  Boy-Hero 

Address  to  Sleep         ..... 

The  Fairy  Gift  .  .  .  . 

Ticunderoga     .  .  .  .  .  .  .27 

Dream  of  a  Happy  Heart  3^ 

To  a  Tuberose  ... 

The  Thistle  Blossom  ...  . 

Sky-Light        . 42 

To  the  Hudson  River  .... 

The  Tear *6 

An  Evening  Reverie   ..••«•** 
We  Are  No  Longer  Young    .  .  .  .  .50 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Webster  .  .  •  .53 

The  Marble  Statue      ......        5S 

Cups  of  Gold    .  .  .  .  .  .  .68 

The  Robin's  Hymn  of  Joy      .  .  •  •  .72 

Sister  Rose      .......         7l 

Birth-day  Verses         ......         82 

My  Children    .......         8* 

The  Wooing    ....  .  .         87 

The  Red  Rose  and  the  White  .  .  .  .01 

The  Little  Trout's  Soliloquy  .         94 

Thoughts  in  a  Forest  .....         97 


865941 


CONTEXTS. 


TACK 

The  Child-Poet  ......         99 

Bunker  Hill     .......       102 

John  Quincy  Adams   .  .  .  .  .  .112 

'  The  Lover's  Rock       .  .  .  .  .  .115 

The  Brook       .......       123 

The  Maiden's  Secret  ......       126* 

The  Life-Kiss  .  .  .  .  .  .128 

Pygmalion       .......       133 

The  Mettawee  .  .  .  .  .  .138 

"  Life  in  Death"          ......       140 

Admonition     .......       144 

A  Thought      .......       146 

Graves  by  the  Sea-Side          .  .  .  .  .147 

Mary  Russell  Mitford  .  .  .  .  .151 

"  Over  the  Brook"      ....  154 

The  Poet  and  the  Sparrow     .  .  .  .  .157 

The  Modern  Martyr    .  .  .  .  .  .161 


fpns  anfo  fangs. 


Hymn  to  the  Deity     .....  J67 

Hymn  to  the  Passing  Year    ....  270 

Song. — "  We've  Had  our  Share  of  Bliss"      .            .  .       173 

Song  of  the  Sea           .....  175 

Song  of  the  Summer  Flowers             .            .            .  179 

The  Mother's  Hymn   .....  \&i 

The  Misanthrope's  Song          ....  183 

Love  Song      .......       186 

Boat  Song       .....  188 

An  Indian  Mother's  Lament                .  190 

Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July    ...  192 

The  Hymn  of  Joy        «...  194 


CONTENTS. 

vii 

PiOl 

Song    ....... 

.       197 

The  Rover's  Serenade             .... 

.       199 

A  Hymn  of  Thanks     ..... 

.       201 

Dirge  for  a  Departing  Race  .... 

.       203 

f  (re  Mutter  <$tat&. 

The  Autumn  Wind     ..... 

.       209 

The  Bird  of  Passage   ..... 

.      213 

Oar  Christmas  Morn  ..... 

.       217 

Thoughts  in  Winter    ..... 

.      219 

The  Dawn  of  Day       ..... 

.       221 

Solitude           ...... 

.      225           t 

The  Wandering  Dove              .... 

.       223 

Our  Beloved  One        ..... 

.       231 

The  Mother's  Dream              .             .             . 

,       233 

Address  to  Time          ..... 

.      239 

The  Mourner               ..... 

.      242 

To  Lillie  in  Heaven    ..... 

.      245 

"Words  of  Cheer          ..... 

.      249 

^  J^u's  ffcmlj. 

The  Fairy's  Search     ..... 

.       255 

WfKfMIWMVlK    'XMttM 

^m.MiiuiHiuu.j    ^.umx 

The  Poet's  Appeal                                                        . 

.      284 

The  American  Indians            .... 

.      286 

The  Happy  Band       ..... 

.       289 

"  Her  Eye  is  undimm'd  "        .             .             .             . 

.       293 

The  Beacon  ...... 

.       295 

CONTENTS. 


Sunlight  and  Shadow              .             .             .  £99 

The  Lost  Spirit  of  Youth       .             .             .  302 

Lines  for  an  Album    ....  304 

Geniu8  .....       305 

The  Burning  Boat                                              .  3Qj 

The  Spirit  of  Spring  ....  319 

The  Stormy  Petrel     .            .            .            .  .                   313 

The  Pet  Eabbits         ....  515 

Autumn  Musings        .             ...  317 

Cecelia            .            .            .            .            .  320 

Books              .  coo 

•  •                        .            O.4O 

A  Portrait       .....  324 

American  Liberty       ....  337 


PREFACE. 

THE  bards  of  by -gone  days,  with  souls  inspired 
By  lofty  themes,  chanted  most  noble  strains — 
Strains  so  sublime  the  listening  world  did  pause, 
As  lost  in  mute  delight.     They  sang  of  War, 
And  all  its  fervid  joys — sang  the  great  deeds 
Of  martyr-men,  who  gave,  'mid  torturing  wounds 
And  bitter  woes,  their  heart's  last  throbbing  prayers 
To  Freedom's  sacred  cause — then,  smiling,  died, 
And  left  behind  them  names  that  evermore, 
Like  starry  orbs,  illum'd  the  realm  of  Thought. 
These  bards  of  old,  in  tuneful  numbers  sang 
The  fate  of  Nations  too — sang  of  their  rise, 
Their  glory,  their  renown ;  then  sadly  sang 
The  story  of  their  swift  and  sure  decline, 
As  Pomp  and  Pride  and  Luxury  crept  in, 
To  undermine  the  fair  and  stately  towers 
That  self-denying  Virtue,  frugal  Toil, 
And  patient  Industry  had  slowly  reared. 
Oh!  these  majestic  masters  of  the  lyre ! 
Well  they  fulfilled  their  noble  mission  here. 


viii  PREFACE. 


They  charmed  the  world's  large  heart  with  Truth's  pure  lore; 
They  taught  great  lessons  to  mankind,  and  crowned 
The  hoary  Years  with  Wisdom. 

Fain  would  I 

Catch  the  proud  spirit  of  those  deathless  strains, 
And  waken  notes  that  Fame's  resounding  voice 
Might  waft  adown  the  rolling  flood  of  Time. 
But  this  may  never  be — My  soul  is  formed 
For  other  thoughts  and  themes.     I  may  not  tune 
My  votive  lyre  in  harmony  with  those 
"Whose  grand  reverberations  echo  yet, 
To  speak  the  power  of  those  long-vanished  bards. 
The  stately  Muse  that  wakes  heroic  song, 
Comes  not  to  me  as  erst  she  came  to  them — 
A  proud  Minerva,  leaping  into  life 
Full-grown,  and  panoplied  for  mighty  deeds. 
Lo !  at  my  call  a  gentler  being  comes ! 
As  from  the  swelling  ocean  waves  once  rose 
The  Goddess  of  Delight,  so  from  the  sea 
Of  billowy  Thought  that  surges  in  my  breast, 
Uprises  to  my  view  a  shape  serene — 
Spirit  of  Poesy  !     Divinest  guest 
That  visits  this  sad  earth, — thy  smiling  eyca 


PREFACE. 


Flood  all  my  soul  with  light ;   thy  dulcet  voice, 
Sweeter  than  lulling  waters,  heard  at  eve, 
Falling  in  far-off  glens — thrills  every  chord 
Of  my  enraptured  heart.     Thou  bidst  me  sing — 
I  hear  thee  name,  in  softly  whispered  words, 
The  very  themes  that  haunt,  by  day  and  night, 
Like  restless  ghosts  the  chambers  of  my  brain. 
With  reverent  soul  I  bow  to  thy  behest, 
Oh,  gentle  Spirit,  and  attune  my  lyre 

To  sing  the  changeful  scenes  of  human  life 

Its  hopes  and  fears;  its  sunny  moods  of  joy, 
And  sacred  hours  of  Grief. 

Reader,  scorn  not 

These  unambitious  themes.    The  tiniest  flower 
That  lifts  its  modest  head  above  the  earth, 
Oft  in  its  bosom  hides  the  sweetest  scent. 
The  simplest  tune  that  ever  minstrel  played 
May  sound  the  key-note  to  unnumbered  hearts  : 
And  household  lays,  tho'  framed  with  little  skill, 
And  unadorned  by  imagery  sublime, 
May  go  abroad,  like  sober-vestured  nuns, 
To  do  great  deeds  of  charity,  and  speak 


PR  E  F  A  C  E. 


Comfort  to  suffering  souls. — Small  are  the  seeds, 

Most  small  and  light,  that  wandering  winds  do  waft 

To  desert  isles — yet,  mark  how  far  they  go, 

And  what  a  holy  ministry  is  theirs! 

To  warm,  to  quicken  in  the  ungenial  soil, 

To  bud  and  bloom  and  hang  on  flinty  rocks 

Garlands  of  living  beauty ! — Thus,  perchance, 

These  wandering  seeds  of  Poesy  may  go 

To  darkened  homes,  to  far-off,  sad  abodes, 

And,  falling  there  on  hearts  that  Grief  has  seared, 

They  may  (oh,  happy  thought !)  in  that  chill  soil 

Implant  the  tender  germ  of  Hope  once  more, 

And  bid  the  smiling  flowers  of  sweet  Content 

And  holy  Resignation  bloom  again. 


POEM  S. 


INVOCATION. 

I. 

COME  from  thy  fairy  realm  of  dreamt*; 

Come  from  thy  haunted  cell, 
Sweet  Poesy,  and  o'er  me  breathe 

Thy  soft  beguiling  spell. 
Come,  let  the  magic  of  thy  smile 

Inspiring  fancies  bring; 
Come,  lend  the  music  of  thy  voice 

To  aid  me  while  I  sing. 

II. 

Thou  wert  with  me — oh,  spirit  fair ! 

In  childhood's  happy  day — 
I  felt  thy  mystic  presence  oft, 

Amid  my  careless  play  ; 


12  INVOCATION. 


And  loved  e'en  then  the  unknown  good, 
The  sweet,  though  viewless  power, 

That  bade  me  see  such  wondrous  charma 
In  every  opening  flower. 

III. 

In  youth's  enchanted  season,  too, 

Thou  wert  forever  near, 
Whispering  angelic  melodies 

To  my  enraptured  ear ; 
More  eloquent  than  burning  words 

Traced  by  a  lover's  pen, 
More  tuneful,  far,  than  minstrel's  lyre 

"Wert  thou,  dear  spirit,  then. 

IV. 

And,  in  the  later,  darker  days, 

When  Care  had  saddened  Thought, 
Thou  wert  the  friend  whose  accents  still 

Sweet  consolation  brought : 
Thou  wert  the  anchor  of  my  hope, 

The  angel  of  my  home — 
Where  thou  did'st  smile,  no  bitter  tear, 

No  sinful  dream  could  come. 


INVOCATION.  13 


V. 
Thou  bad'st  me  find  in  every  ill 

Its  own  ennobling  cure ; 
Thou  bad'st  me  learn  from  sorrow's  page, 

A  lesson  high  and  pure. 
Thou  taught'st  that  every  erring  heart 

Some  germ  of  good  enshrined ; 
Thou  gavest  me  too  the  golden  key 

This  hidden  germ  to  find. 

VI. 

Thou  bad'st  me  hear  in  murmuring  winds 

In  ocean's  plaintive  chime, 
As  in  the  planets'  solemn  march 

A  melody  sublime. 
Thou  bad'st  me  love  the  lowliest  flower, 

That  deck'd  the  path  I  trod ; 
Thou  wert  the  grand  Interpreter 

Of  Nature's  unseen  GOD. 

VII. 

Oh,  teacher  of  my  early  hours! 

Oh,  lover  of  my  youth ! 
Oh,  friend  most  tried,  still  let  me  claim 

Thy  constancy  and  truth. 


INVOCATION. 


Still  let  the  fading  flowers  of  Thought 

Be  nurtured  by  thy  smile ; 
Still  linger  near,  and  let  thy  voice 

Life's  gathering  cares  beguile. 

VIII. 
Then  shall  I  yet  in  every  scene 

The  Beautiful  behold ; 
And  trace,  in  all  earth's  wayward  hearts, 

The  virtues  they  enfold. 
Then  shall  I  keep  the  holy  faith 

My  sinless  childhood  knew, 
And  nearer  draw  to  thy  High  Sourpe, 

Thou  Spirit  pure  and  true, 


DEATH    OF    THE    ROBIN. 
I. 

FROM  his  sweet  banquet,  'mid  the  perfumed  clover, 

A  robin  soared  and  sung  ; 
Never  the  voice  of  happy  bard  or  lover, 

Such  peals  of  gladness  rung. 
Lone  Echo,  loitering  by  the  distant  hill-side, 

Or  hiding  in  the  glen, 
Caught  up,  with  thirsting  lip,  the  tide  of  sweetness 

Then  bade  it  flow  again. 

II. 

The  summer  air  was  flooded  with  the  music ; 

Winds  held  their  breath  to  hear ; 
And  blushing  wild-flowers  hung  their  heads,  enamoured, 

To  list  that  "joyance  clear." 
Just  then  from  neighboring  covert  rudely  ringing, 

Broke  forth  discordant  sound, 
And  wily  fowler,  from  his  ambush  springing, 

Gazed  eagerly  around. 

III. 

Still  upward  thro'  the  air  that  yet  was  thrilling 
To  his  melodious  lay, 


1C  THE    ROBIN. 


One  instant  longer,  on  a  trembling  pinion, 

The  robin  cleaved  his  way. 
But,  ah !  the  death  shot  rankled  in  his  bosom  ! 

His  life  of  song  was  o'er ! 
Back— back  to  earth,  from  out  his  heavenward  pathway 

He  fell  to  rise  no  more ! 

IV. 

A  sudden  silence  chilled  the  heart  of  Nature,— 

Leaf,  blossom,  bird  and  bee, 
Seemed  each,  in  startled  hush,  to  mourn  the  pausing 

Of  that  sweet  minstrelsy; 
And  Echo,  breathless  in  her  secret  dwelling, 

Like  love-lorn  maid,  in  vain 
"Waited  and  listened  long,  to  catch  the  accents, 
She  ne'er  might  hear  again. 

V. 

Oh  bird !  sweet  poet  of  the  summer  woodlands ! 

How  like  thy  lay  to  those 
Of  tuneful  Bards,  whose  songs  begun  in  gladness, 

Have  oft  the  saddest  close ! 
Thus  many  a  strain  of  human  love  and  rapture, 

Poured  from  a  fond,  full  heart, 
Hath  been,  in  one  wild  moment,  hushed  forever 

By  sorrow's  fatal  dart. 


THE  BOY- HERO.* 

I. 

A  father  and  his  little  son 

On  wintry  waves  were  sailing : 

Fast  from  their  way  the  light  of  day, 
In  cloud  and  gloom  was  failing ; 

And  fiercely  round  their  lonely  boat 
The  stormy  winds  were  wailing. 

II. 

They  knew  that  peril  hovered  near — 
They  prayed,  "  Oh  !  Heaven  deliver !" 

But  a  wilder  blast  came  howling  past, 
And  soon  with  sob  and  shiver, 

They  struggled  in  the  icy  grasp 
Of  that  dark  rushing  river. 

III. 

"  Cling  fast  to  me,  my  darling  child," 
An  anguished  voice  was  crying; 

"While  silvery  clear,  o'er  tempest  drear, 
Rose  softer  tones  replying, 

*  The  incident  related  in  this  little  ballad  is  strictly  true. 
2 


18  THE    BOY-HERO. 


IV. 

"  Oh,  mind  not  me,  my  father  dear, 

I'm  not  afraid  of  dying — 
Oh,  mind  not  me — but  save  yourself 

For  mother's  sake,  dear  father — 
Leave  me,  and  hasten  to  the  shore, 

Or  who  will  comfort  mother?" 

V.   . 

The  angel  forms  that  ever  wait 

Unseen,  on  man  attendant, 
Flew  up  o'erjoyed  to  Heaven's  bright  gate, 

And  there,  on  page  resplendent, 
High  over  those  of  heroes  bold 

And  martyrs  famed  in  story, 
They  wrote  the  name  of  that  brave  boy 

And  wreathed  it  round  with  glory. 

VI. 

"  God  bless  the  child !"     Ay,  He  did  bless 

That  noble  self-denial ; 

% 

And  safely  bore  him  to  the  shore, 

Thro'  tempest,  toil,  and  trial. 
Soon,  in  their  happy,  tranquil  home, 

Son,  sire,  and  that  dear  mother 
For  whose  sweet  sake  so  much  was  done, 

In  rapture  met  each  other. 


ADDRESS   TO   SLEEP. 

Thou  shadowy  realm!  thou  mystic  border-land 
Twixt  Life  and  Death,  how  solemn  are  thy  shores! 
Into  their  varied  scenes,  unchained,  and  free, 
The  spirit  nightly  goes — Scorning  the  laws 
Which  rule  its  earth-born  frame,  it  soars  away 
Like  an  unfettered  bird.     What  if  the  soul, 
That  thus  in  venturous  voyages  wanders  far, 
Should  linger  on  its  airy  pilgrimage 
And  never  more  return  ?     Such  thoughts  will  come 
To  mingle  with  our  vesper  hymns  and  prayers- 
Such  thought  adds  solemn  import  to  the  spell, 
That  wafts  us  from  this  wondrous  waking  life 
To  one  more  wondrous  still.     Lo !  angel  shapes 
Do  come  to  greet  us  in  this  land  of  dreams ! 
Are  these  unreal  shadows — children,  born 
Of  the  capricious  movements  of  the  brain? 

JSQ rather  let  us  deem  them  beings  sent 

From  some  diviner  realm,  to  smile  away 

The  secret  griefs  of  this.     Ofttirnes  they  wear 

The  semblance  of  some  well-beloved  form 

Whose  steps  once  gladdened  earth  with  echoes  sweet 

That  now  are  heard  no  more.     Oh !  gentle  Sleep, 


20  T  0    S  L  E  E  P 


How  dear  thou  art,  when  thou  dost  lead  the  soul 

Into  the  presence  of  its  loved  and  lost ! 

The  day  hath  still  its  vexing  cares  and  thoughts  ; 

But  Night — calm,  holy  Night,  doth  ever  bring 

Folded  in  her  dark  robes  an  angel  bright : 

And  when  this  angel  bends  above  our  couch 

Or  softly  breathes  upon  our  throbbing  brow, 

What  marvellous  change  is  wrought !     The  weary  frame 

That,  like  a  goodly  bark,  hath  all  day  long 

Breasted  the  waves  of  Care,  lies  moored  at  last 

Upon  a  quiet  shore — while  the  brave  soul, 

Th'  adventurous  soul  that  never  sleeps  or  tires, 

Like  a  bold  mariner  without  a  chart, 

Goes  forth  to  traverse  far  off,  boundless  realms. 

Oh  !  beautiful  as  something  yet  untold 

Are  the  sweet  fairy  isles  this  voyager  finds 

In  the  bright  clime  of  dreams !     There  the  pure  skies 

Are  never  dimmed  by  clouds.     There,  on  the  wings 

Of  every  wandering  breeze,  celestial  strains 

Of  magic  music  float.     There  blossom  flowers 

Which  do  not  droop  or  fade — and  there,  oh !  there 

The  hand  of  Death  comes  not  to  rend  away 

Those  clinging  tendrils,  which  so  closely  wind 

About  the  loving  heart. 

Bless  thee,  sweet  Sleep ! 
Thou  comest  with  the  balmy  dew  of  heaven — 


TO     SLEEP.  21 


Like  that  thou  bringest  life  anew  to  earth. 

From  the  black  wing  of  Darkness  thou  dost  smile 

Like  a  pure  star-beam  from  a  stormy  cloud. 

Thou  art  a  ministering  angel  unto  man : 

The  weary  welcome  thee  with  languid  thoughts 

That  shape  themselves  to  prayers ;  and  sorrowing  hearts 

Woo  the  Enchantress  whose  soft  spell  can  work 

The  miracle  that  gives  them  back,  once  more, 

The  treasures  Death  had  stol'n.     The  happy,  too, 

Receive  thee  gratefully,  for  thy  sweet  dreams, 

Like  echoes  of  rich  music,  breathe  again 

The  tuneful  story  of  the  day's  delight, 

And,  by  most  wondrous  process,  oft  renew 

The  broken  links  of  joy. 

Celestial  Sleep, 

Let  me  await  thee  reverently,  as  one 
Who  may  unveil  the  mysteries  which  lie 
Beyond  this  mortal  sphere.     Let  evil  thoughts, 
Let  sin  and  wrong  and  all  uncharity 
Be  banished  from  the  heart,  ere  it  receive 
So  beautiful  a  guest.     Let  earnest  prayer 
Make  pure  the  spirit,  ere  it  venture  forth 
With,  the  bright  angel  who  may  yield  his  trust 
To  his  pale  brother  Death  before  the  morn. 


THE  FAIKY  GIFT. 

I. 

In  the  summer's  lingering  twilight, 

A  thoughtful  little  child 
Stole  from  her  village  playmates, 

To  a  pathway  lone  and  wild. 
Far  from  her  young  companions, 

Far  from  her  home  she  strayed, 
Unmindful  of  the  distance, 

Unwearied,  undismayed. 
*As  a  floating  cloud  moves  onward 

To  the  breathings  of  the  wind, 
So  she,  to  some  soft  impulse 

That  swayed  her  musing  mind. 

II. 

She  passed  the  distant  woodland ; 

She  climbed  the  hill's  far  hight ; 
Then  paused,  to  send  adown  the  vale 

A  gaze  of  calm  delight. — 
Tho'  but  a  child  in  seeming, 

Yet  solitude  and  tears 
Had  ripened  in  her  spirit 

The  fruits  of  later  years. — 


THE  FAIllY  GIFT. 


Well  might  she  note  the  loveliness 
Of  that  calm  twilight  hour, 

For  Poesy  o'erfilled  her  soul, 
As  dew  an  opening  flower. 

III. 

The  hues  of  glorious  beauty 

Now  mantling  hill  and  plain, 
Thrilled  the  fine  chords  of  feeling 

Like  a  magic  music-strain. 
She  drank  such  floods  of  rapture 

From  that  landscape  wide  and  bright, 
That  her  tender  heart  grew  saddened 

With  its  burden  of  delight ; 
And,  like  an  early  violet 

On  which  the  rain  is  shed, 
Her  fragile  form  sank  down,  oppress'd 

On  that  green,  mossy  bed. 

IV. 
She  slept — and  in  her  slumber 

A  fairy  form  drew  nigh, 
Which  wore  to  that  young  dreamer, 

The  glory  of  the  sky — 
It  bent  above  the  sleeper ; 

It  whispered  soft  and  low, 


24  THE  FAIRY  GIFT. 


"  I  can,  on  all  Earth's  children, 

Some  precious  gift  bestow. 
Then  tell  me,  little  maiden, 

Ay,  tell  me,  frank  and  free, 
What  beauteous  trinket,  toy  or  flower 

Wouldst  thou  receive  from  me?  " 

V. 

The  dreamer  gently  answered — 

(Gazing  always  in  those  eyes, 
Whose  wondrous  beauty  charmed  her 

Like  stars  in  cloudless  skies) 
"  I  wish  no  gem,  bright  spirit. 

No  flower,  or  trinket  fair ; 
I  crave  a  boon  more  precious, 

A  gift  more  rich  and  rare. 
Grant  me  the  poet's  wondrous  skill, 

His  tuneful  power  to  tell 
The  strange,  sweet  thoughts,  and  mystic  dreams 

That  in  my  bosom  dwell." 

VI. 

Then  sighed,  and  said  the  fairy, 

"  A  solemn  boon  is  this, 
Which  thy  young  heart  believeth 

Will  bring  unmingled  bliss — 


T  II  E  F  A  I  R  Y  G  I  F  T.  25 


For  clouded  skies,  and  shadowed  paths 

To  poets  oft  belong; 
And  countless  drops  of  sorrow  fall 

To  swell  the  tide  of  song." 

VII. 

"  I  shrink  not  from  the  shadows, 

Kind  fairy — nor  from  pain, 
Methinks  they  would  but  aid  my  soul 

To  wake  more  tuneful  strain. 
Oh,  let  me  bear  the  poet's  lot, 

However  dark  or  sad, 
And  like  the  wood-bird  in  the  storm, 

My  lay  shall  make  it  glad." 

VIII. 

"  Still  must  I  pause  young  maiden— 
The  boon  you  ask  of  me 

Is  so  divine,  so  holy, 
That  it  must  ever  be 

Devoted  to  high  uses, 

And  kept  with  watchful  care, 

Lest  earthly  stain  or  blemish 
Should  mar  its  beauty  rare." 


26  THEFAIKYGIFT. 


IX. 
"Trust  me,  them  gracious  spirit, — 

I  know  its  heavenly  birth, 
And  I  will  keep  the  hallowed  gift 

As  one  of  priceless  worth. 
Pure  thoughts,  emotions  holy, 

And  lofty  themes  alway 
Shall  be  in  joy  or  sorrow, 

The  key-notes  of  my  lay. 
Far  from  the  worldling's  thoughtless  song 

My  grateful  voice  shall  rise, 
And  float,  like  hymn  of  morning  lark, 

Up  to  the  tranquil  skies." 

X. 

Then  brightly  smiled  that  angel  shape, 

And  touched  the  sleeper's  hand, 
When  straightway,  o'er  her  spirit  rushed 

The  joys  of  fairy -land — 
That  tide  of  sweet  emotion 

Dissolving  Slumber's  chain, 
She  woke  to  find  Night's  sable  robe, 

Had  mantled  hill  and  plain ; 
But,  cheerily  and  bravely 
She  trod  her  homeward  way, 
For  on  her  path  there  shone  a  light 
More  beautiful  than  day. 


TICONDEROGA. 

WRITTEN  IX  VIEW  OF  THE  RUINED  FORT. 

Traveler,  roaming  far  and  wide, 
Linger  here  by  Charaplain's  tide; 
Watch  these  peaceful  waters  glide 
By  yon  mount,  grass-grown  and  hoary, 
By  yon  ruin,  famed  in  story, 
Famed  for  deeds  of  martial  glory — 

Old  Ticonderoga. 

Once  the  voice  of  War  was  here — 
Bugle  notes  rang  loud  and  clear ; 
Cannon  thundered  far  and  near. 
Once  the  victor's  thrilling  cry ; 
Once  the  wounded  soldier's  sigh 
Wakened  Echo's  wild  reply 

In  Ticonderoga. 

Now  how  changed  is  all  the  scene ! 
Lo,  the  grass  springs,  fresh  and  green, 
Where  the  scorching  flames  have  been ! 
Now,  instead  of  crimson  stain, 
Summer's  gentle  dew  and  rain 
Nurture  wild  flowers  on  the  plain 

'Round  Ticonderoga. 


28  TICONDEROGA. 


On  those  towers,  where  banners  gay 
Floated  in  a  by-gone  day, 
Now  soft  breezes  gently  sway 
Creeping  vines  that  darkly  fall 
O'er  each  mouldering  arch  and  wall, 
Shrouding  thus,  in  fitting  pall 

Old  Ticonderoga. 

Now,  in  place  of  bayonets  bright 
Flashing  back  the  sunbeam's  light, 
And  telling  tales  of  coining  fight, 
See  dark  mullein  stalks  appear 
Rising  grimly,  brown  and  sere — 
Silent  sentries  watching  here 

At  Tieonderoga. 
\ 
Hark  !  instead  of  trump  and  drum 

What  melodious  murmurs  come ! 
First  the  wild  bee's  drowsy  hum, 
Then  a  cricket's  cheerful  strain, 
Then  a  robin's  sweet  refrain 
Wakens  Echo's  voice  again 

In  Ticonderoga. 

Ay  !  this  old  deserted  place 
Is  peopled  with  a  busy  race. — 
Thronging  troops,  and  armies,  rife 


T  I  C  0  N  D  E  R  0  G  A.  29 


With  the  mystic  pulse  of  life, 
Move  and  meet,  but  not  in  strife, 

At  Ticonderoga. 

Tread  upon  this  grassy  mound — 
Straightway  springing  from  the  ground, 
Hosts  of  insects  flutter  'round. 
Look  ye,  in  the  moat  below 
Frogs  are  leaping  to  and  fro, 
While,  unquestioned,  come  and  go 
Reptile-bands,  that,  creeping  slow, 

Scale  Ticonderoga. 

Busy  spiders  spin  their  thread 
Over  apertures  whence  sped 
Cannon  ball  on  mission  dread. 
Perfumed  flower-bells  incense  fling 
On  the  breeze,  and  softly  ring 
Requiems  for  the  slumbering 

Of  Ticonderoga. 

Low  the  western  sun  declines — 
Faint  its  parting  radiance  shines 
Over  Glory's  crumbling  shrines : 
Like  the  love-light  of  a  dream 
Fadeth  now  the  roseate  beam — 
Not  so  fades  the  witching  theme 

Of  Ticonderoga. 


30  T I  C  0  X  D  E  R  0  G  A. 


As  the  twilight  shadows  fall 
Darkly  o'er  each  mouldering  wall, 
Dreaming  Fancy  loves  to  call 
Spirit-forms  from  spirit-land, 
'Till  again  a  mighty  band 
Seems,  in  martial  pomp,  to  stand 

In  Ticonderoga. 

Every  tree  with  outstretched  limb, 
Every  shrub  of  outline  dim 
Is  a  warrior  tall  and  grim ; 
Every  night-bird's  mournful  strain 
Is  a  cry  of  mortal  pain — 
War's  wild  accents  breathed  again 

At  Ticonderoga. 

Surely  this  is  haunted  ground  ! 
Spirit-voices  echo  round, 
Telling  tales,  in  solemn  sound, 
Of  the  days  when  freemen  stood 
Battling  for  their  country's  good — 
Buying  Liberty  with  blood 

At  Ticonderoga. 

Valor's  deeds  arc  still  sublime — 
Still  they  gleam  in  every  clime, 
"Watch-lights  on  the  shores  of  Time. 
Such  pure  beacon-flames  are  here, 


TICONDEROGA.  31 


Shining  on  from  year  to  year, 
Making  every  memory  dear 

Of  Ticonderoga. 

Nature  consecrates  the  sod 
By  a  hero's  footsteps  trod, 
Ere  his  soul  went  up  to  God. 
Nature  bids  us  hallow  still, 
Every  battle  plain  or  hill 
That  can  make  the  pulses  thrill 

Like  Ticonderoga. 

Here,  where  patriot-blood  was  shed ; 
Here  where  brave  men  bowed  the  head, 
Let  us  still  with  reverence  tread. 
Here  let  Thought  with  fervor  burn, 
Here  let  wandering  pilgrims  turn — 
Lofty  lessons  they  may  learn 

At  Ticonderoga. 

Now  with  musing  step  and  slow, 
From  this  witching  scene  we  go — 
Hark !  the  winds  breathe  dirges  low, 
And  the  soft  waves  beating  time, 
Waken  elegies  sublime, 
Elegies  that  long  shall  chime 

Near  Ticonderoga. 


32  TICONDEROGA. 


Fare  thee  well,  thou  ruin  hoary  ! 
Thou  shalt  still  be  crowned  with  glory ; 
Thou  shalt  live  in  song  and  story. 
Oft  shall  patriot  bosoms  bound 
As  the  minstrel  breathes  around 
Tribute  to  thy  hallowed  ground, 

Old  Ticonderoga. 


DREAM   OF  A  HAPPY   HEART 

I. 

OFTTIMES  I  have  a  vision, 

In  which  I  seem  to  stand 
Amid  the  magic  scenery 

Of  some  old  fairy-land — 
Blue  skies  bend  cloudless  o'er  me ; 

Soft  music  fills  the  air; 
And  Joy's  sweet  voice  within  me 

Sings  a  lullaby  to  Care. 

II. 

Then  earth  is  full  of  beauty, 

And  hearts  are  full  of  bliss; 
And  the  radiant  worlds  above  me 

Look  no  lovelier  than  this. 
Then  in  a  haunted  palace 

I  seem  to  live  and  move, 
While  near,  and  round  about  me 

Gather  beings  whom  I  love. 

III. 

One  comes,  with  stately  presence, 
To  linger  at  my  side; 


34  THE   HAPPY    II  EAJi'i. 


Whispering  ever  low  and  fondly 
Like  a  lover  to  his  bride. 

And  one,  a  gentle  maiden 
With  face  serenely  fair, 

Bends  on  me  looks  as  smiling 
As  sister-angels  wear. 

IV. 

Two  others,  little  fairies 

Most  beautiful  and  bright. 
In  this  enchanted  palace 

"Wake  the  echoes  of  delight : 
Their  childish  hearts  and  voices 

Are  ever  tuned  to  glee ; 
And  a  name  most  sweet,  most  holy, 

They  both  bestow  on  me. 

V. 

Within  this  pleasant  mansion 
Are  pictures  half  divine ; — 

Here  radiant  summer  landscapes 
.  In  truthful  brightness  shine ; 

Here  witching  types  of  women, 
So  life-like  woo  the  eye, 

They  wake,  as  they  were  real, 
Love's  soft  impassioned  sigh. 


THE  II  A  T  P  Y  HEAR  T.  35 


VI. 

Here  forms  of  classic  beauty — 

Gems  of  creative  art, 
Thrill  the  deep  chords  of  feeling 

In  the  gazer's  dreaming  heart. 
Here  tomes  of  buried  sages, 

Or  poet's  tuneful  lay, 
Or  History's  stirring  pages 

Beguile  the  passing  day. 

VII. 

And  here,  when  Evening  coineth, 

Her  shadows  seem  to  call 
A  troop  of  joyous  spirits 

To  grace  the  haunted  hall: — 
Bright  flash  the  lamps  above  them ; 

Bright  sparkle  eyes  below ; 
While  hearts  and  voices  echo 

Sweet  Music's  tuneful  flow. 

VIII. 

When  these  festive  hours  are  numbered 

And  the  spirits  fade  away, 
I  do  not  wake  in  sorrow, 

But,  dreaming  still,  I  pray 


36  THE   HAPPY   HEART. 


That  heaven  -will  spare  this  vision 
With  holy  sweetness  rife, 

Long,  long  to  me  unbroken, 
For  't  is  my  own  calm  life. 


TO   A  TUBEROSE. 


WHAT  subtile  spirit  of  delight  doth  dwell 

In  thy  soft  breath,  oh !  sweetest,  sweetest  flower  ? 

We  drink  its  honied  sighs,  then  drink  again; 

And  strive  to  turn  away— yet  lingering,  stay, 

Till  the  soul  grows  intoxicate  with  bliss. 

Like  the  inebriate,  who  would  fain  escape 

From  the  charmed  cup  that  steals  away  his  sense, 

So  from  the  fascination  of  thy  spell, 

We  vainly  seek  to  fly. — Oft  must  we  turn 

To  quaff,  once  more,  the  nectar  of  that  fount 

Which,  like  a  living  spring,  wells  ever  up 

From  thy  heart's  balmy  depths. 

Thou  art  twice-dowered, 
Thou  miracle  of  beauty  and  perfume ! 
How  lovely  are  thy  rosy-tinted  buds, 
That  seem  to  blush,  in  very  consciousness 
Of  the  sweet  secret  folded  in  their  leaves, 
As  a  young  maiden  blushes,  e'en  to  think 
On  the  fond  love  hid  in  her  fluttering  heart : — 
And  thy  soft  waxen  flowers,  so  pure  and  pale, 
So  prodigal  of  the  exhaustless  wealth 
That  in  them  lies,  they  are,  in  very  truth, 
A  "  beauty  and  a  mystery"— They  awake 


38  TOATUBEROSE. 


Extatic  dreams,  as  might  a  wandering  strain 
Of  some  wild  melody  heard  from  afar, 
Upon  a  summer  night,  Avhen  Nature's  self 
Has  set  our  thoughts  to  music. 

Wondrous  flower ! 

How  should  I  marvel  at  thy  magic  spell, 
Did  I  not  know  the  Hand  that  fashioned  thee 
Could  shape,  with  mighty  skill,  e'en  rarer  things — 
Yes,  I  have  known  some  hearts  of  human  mould, 
Whose  gentle  breathings  were  as  pure  and  sweet, 
And  excellent  as  thine — Hearts  that  would  give, 
And  give,  like  thee,  their  kindly  treasures  forth 
To  bless  the  admiring  world — Hearts  richly  dowered 
With  wealth  of  virtue,  as  thyself  with  wealth 
Of  balmiest  fragrance.     Oh,  to  dwell 
A-near  such  lofty  natures,  is  to  be 
Upon  the  borders  of  an  Eden  land, 
Whose  airs  are  wafted  to  us,  'til  we  dream 
Of  the  bright  paradise  from  whence  they  came  ! 
I  thank  thee,  eloquent  wakener  of  pure  thoughts, 
That  hast  with  passionate  breathings,  lured  my  mind 
To  contemplation  of  those  rich,  rare  souls 
Whose  type  thou  art.     From  them  I  can  but  turn 
To  holier  contemplation  of  the  Power 
That  made  this  fair,  bright  world,  and  peopled  it 
With  flowers  so  beautiful,  and  hearts  so  good. 


THE    THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 


I. 

In  a  beautiful  meadow,  daintily  spread 
With  clover-blossoms,  white  and  red, 
And  sweet  wild-flowers  of  varied  hue. 
An  ugly  thistle  flourished  too — 

Loftily,  there, 
In  the  soft  summer  air, 
Uprose  its  rude  form  o'er  the  fragrant  and  fair. 

II. 

Many  a  golden  butterfly 
Came,  like  a  sunbeam,  hovering  nigh, 
And  one,  the  brightest  of  all  his  race 
Folded  his  wing  in  that  perilous  place. 
Why  did  he  go, 
This  gaily  dressed  beau, 
To  a  flower  that  was  armed  like  a  deadly  foe  ? 

III. 

A  little  ground  sparrow,  flitting  near, 
Sang  aloud  in  the  butterfly's  ear, 


40  THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 


And  kindly  warned  him  to  hasten  away — 
Weaving  these  words  in  his  tuneful  lay — 

"  Foolish  one  flee ! 

"  Or  soon  you  will  be 
"  Pierced  thro'  by  those  countless  thorns  you  see." 

IV. 

Beau-butterfly  never  heeded  the  song — 
For  so  fickle  a  wooer  his  courtship  was  long; 
And  the  very  moment  he  took  his  flight, 
A  honey-bee  came  with  a  hum  of  delight ; 
And,  hiding  his  head 
In  that  thorn-guarded  bed, 
Forgot  the  rich  clover  all  round  him  spread. 

V. 

The  sparrow  sang  in  a  louder  strain 
His  friendly  song  of  warning  again, 
But  though  its  notes  were  breathed  so  near, 
The  bee  was  too  busy  to  heed  or  to  hear ; 
With  thirsting  lip 
He  continued  to  sip, 
'Til  heavy  with  wealth  was  his  golden  hip. 

VI- 

Ah !  the  butterfly  knew,  and  so  did  the  bee, 
Not  all  sweet  flowers  are  fairest  to  see ; 


THISTLE-BLOSSOM.  41 


And  though  the  thistle  was  homely  and  rough, 
Yet  the  heart  of  its  blossom  had  honey  enough — 
Honey  to  spare — 
Some  for  the  air, 
And  plenty  for  fly  and  for  bee  to  share. 

vn. 

i 

How  oft  is  it  thus,  in  the  bowers  of  earth, 
With  human  blossoms  of  lowly  birth  ; 
Their  garb  may  be  rude,  and  their  forms  uncouth, 
Yet  their  spirits  enshrine  the  sweetness  of  truth. 
When  such  you  spy, 
Oh,  pass  them  not  by, 
With  haughty  step  and  averted  eye, 
But  pause  to  speak  in  a  kindly  strain — 
A  recompense  sweet  you  will  surely  gain. 


WHY  dwellest  thou  here,  in  this  old  mountain  tower, 
When  a  home  could  be  thine  in  yon  sweet  greenwood  bower  I 
Said  a  wandering  bard  to  a  student  of  Art, 
Who  toiled  at  his  task  with  a  tireless  heart. 
"Because,"  said  the  Artist,  (and  mark  his  reply) 
"  I  must  have  the  pure,  shadowless  light  of  the  sky; 
Should  I  work  by  aught  other,  ah  !  then  do  you  see, 
Dark  with  errors  the  fruit  of  my  labor  would  be, 

For  REFLECTED,  Or  CROSS-LIGHTS,  Or  lights  from  BELOW 

Give  proportions  all  wrong,  and  false  shadows  bestow — 

While  color,  and  outline,  and  form  all  appear 

Correct  in  the  light  from  a  sky  pure  and  clear — 

For  this  have  I  chosen  my  dwelling  up  here." 

Then  again  spake  the  poet,  as  kindled  his  eye 

In  that  shadowless  flood  raining  down  from  on  high, 

"I  feel,  oh,  young  artist,  the  truth  of  each  word 

Thou  hast  uttered  e'en  now,  and  my  spirit  is  stirred 

By  a  higher  and  holier  knowledge,  than  e'er 

Shone  on  it  before  in  its  visions  most  dear  : 

To  the  depths  of  a  heart,  that,  for  many  a  day, 

Hath  been  shadowed  by  gloom,  steals  the  heavenly  ray  : 

And  all  things  are  seen,  for  the  first  time,  aright, — 

Even  sorrow  and  care  by  this  truth  telling  light. 


SKY    LIGHT.  43 


Henceforth  I  will  strive,  in  my  numbers,  to  show 

That  mortals  should  trust  not  to  '  light  from  below,' 

But  turn  to  that  radiance,  holy  and  high,  • 

Which  smiles  on  their  labors,  DIRECT  from  the  sky ; 

Then,  perchance,  I  may  teach  them  LIFE'S  PICTURE  to  see 

As  thou  hast  this  moment  revealed  it  to  me, 

With  its  lights  all  brought  out — its  proportions  all  true — 

And  e'en  its  dark  shadows  made  beautiful  too." 


LINES 

TO    THE    HUDSON     RIVER. 
I. 

RIVER,  that  glideth  by  my  childhood's  home, 

How  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Thy  crystal  waves,  green  isles,  and  fertile  shores 

Gladden  the  gazer's  heart. 
I  look  on  thee  as  faithful  lovers  look 

On  their  young  idol's  face, 
And  still,  in  every  varying  aspect,  see 

Some  new-born  charm  or  grace. 

II. 

Morn  dimples  thee  with  smiles ; — and  when  the  moon 

Comes  forth  at  eve,  her  beams 
Trace  on  thy  tranquil  tide  a  path  of  light, 

That  leads  to  loftiest  dreams. 
And  when  the  stars,  at  midnight's  holy  hour, 

Are  mirrored  in  thy  breast, 
Thou  seemest  then,  like  the  pure  heaven  o'er  thee, 

A  place  of  peace  and  rest. 

III. 

River,  that  glideth  by  my  childhood's  home, 
How  eloquent  thou  art ! 


T  0   T  H  E  II  (j  D  S  0  N  R I  V  E  R.  45 


What  solemn  truths  from  Nature's  mystic  page 

Thou  whisperest  to  the  heart ! 
I  had  a  friend — a  brother  loved  so  well, 

His  lightest  word  was  dear. 
He  speaks  no  more  on  earth — yet  in  thy  chime 

His  voice  I  seem  to  hear. 

IV. 

Thus  silvery,  soft  and  low,  his  accents  were 

In  converse,  prayer,  or  lay, 
And  thus,  like  thine,  fair  stream,  his  sinless  life 

In  music  flowed  away — 
Far  in  the  spirit-land  he  dwelleth  now, 

Yet  by  some  spell  divine, 
The  gentle  tone  of  thy  sweet  murmur  seems 

To  link  his  soul  to  mine. 

V. 

River,  that  glideth  by  my  childhood's  home ! 

Upon  thy  peaceful  shore 
They  made  the  loved  one's  tomb — there,  too,  shall  I 

Repose  when  life  is  o'er. 
'Tis  sweet  to  think  the  soft  and  lulling  song 

Thy  tuneful  waters  gave 
To  bless  my  earliest  dreams,  will  soothe  the  last, 

And  echo  near  my  grave. 


THE    TEAR. 

I. 

"  THERE  is  a  tear  upon  your  cheek,'' 

My  little  Lillie  said, 
"  I  want  to  kiss  it  off  mamma. 

So  please  hold  down  your  head." 

II. 

I  did  as  she  desired,  dear  child — 

The  drop  was  quickly  gone, 
And  the  young  prattler  spake  once  more, 

In  Love's  melodious  tone — 

\ 

III. 

"  Oh,  naughty  tears !  they  often  come 

When  little  brother  cries; 
But  they  are  naughtier  still,  mamma 

"When  standing  in  your  eyes  : 

IV. 

And  if  they  dare  to  come  again, 

You  must  not  let  them  stay, 
But  call  me  quick,  and  I  will  run 

To   kiss  them  all  away." 


T  II  E   T  EAR.  47 


V. 

God  bless  the  child !  I  inly  prayed, 

"And  may  she  long  believe 
Such  gentle  remedies  can  cure 
The  ills  for  which  we  grieve. 

VI. 

Within  her  simple  faith  lies  hid 

A  moral  of  rare  worth, 
For  kindly  word  and  act  can  soothe 

The  deepest  vroes  of  earth. 

VII. 

Oh,  may  she  prove  the  moral  true 
And,  still  in  future  years, 

Have  ever  near  her  loving  lip.s 
To  kiss  away  her  tears. 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

I. 

DAY,  slowly  dying,  leaves  the  western  heaven 
Rich  with  a  dower  of  smiles,  at  parting  given  : 
As  softly  ebb  those  floods  of  golden  hue, 
To  merge  at  length  in  a  vast  sea  of  blue, 
Hesper,  sweet  star,  peeps  forth  with  smiling  eye 
And  soothes  our  fond  regrets  that  Day  must  die. 

II. 

Earth's  varied  sounds  are  hushed — its  toil  is  o'er  ;- 
Now  wearied  millions  may  their  strength  restore 
With  the  sweet  balm  of  sleep.     Oh,  sacred  hour  ! 
Sacred  to  peace  and  rest — thy  hallowed  power 
Can  soothe  the  care-worn  mind,  and  bid  it  rise 
On  Thought's  serial  pinions  to  the  skies. 

III. 

Night's  solemn  reign  begins — How  swiftly  come 

Her  starry  followers  forth  !     Her  palace  dome 

Is  now  "  a  temple  lit  by  sacred  fires," 

Where  the  soul,  trembling,  worships — jet  aspires, 

E'en  in  its  humble  reverence,  to  know 

More  of  the  mystic  orbs  which  o'er  it  glow. 


EVENING    REVERIE.  49 


IV. 

Those  beacon  flames,  that  since  the  birth  of  Time, 

Have  cheered  Life's  voyagers  with  a  light  sublime 

How  doth  their  fadeless  splendor  bid  us  yearn 

To  know  the  laws  by  which  they  move  and  burn ! 

How  do  we  ponder  o'er  the  lofty  pages, 

Whose  lore  has  charmed  the  world  thro'  countless  ag  is. 

V. 

Our  spirits  MUST  be  kindred  to  the  light 

That  trembles  in  those  stars, — for  when  the  Night 

Broods  over  earth,  and  Silence  is  abroad, 

(That  holy  silence  eloquent  of  God,) 

We  seem  to  hear  the  harmony  divine 

That  links  us  to  the  worlds  which  "sing  and  shine. 

VI. 

Our  hearts,  uplifted  from  earth's  care  and  pain, 

Then  catch  soft  echoes  of  a  heaven-born  strain ; 

Thus  weary  mariners,  who  darkly  float 

•On  storm-tossed  billows,  catch  a  wandering  note 

Of  sweetest  music  from  the  far  off  shore 

Where  they  shall  rest  when  the  last  voyage  is  o'er. 


I. 

WE  are  no  longer  young,  dear  friend, 

We  are  no  longer  young; 
And  Hope,  sweet  minstrel  of  the  Past, 

Sings  not  as  once  she  sung. 
The  early  visions  of  delight 

Change,  with  Life's  changing  year, 
As  summer  blossoms  droop  and  fade 

When  Autumn  storms  draw  near. 

II. 

Upon  thy  brow,  beloved  friend, 

And  more  upon  my  own, 
I  read  the  epitaph  of  years 

Which  have  forever  flown; 
And  in  our  voices,  where  of  old 

Such  mirthful  music  rung 
I  hear  the  softened  tones  that  tell 

We  are  no  longer  young. 

III. 

And  yet,  we  are  not  old,  dear  friend, — 
Oh,  no,  we  are  not  old ! 


X  0    L  0  K  G  E  II    Y  0  U  N  G.  51 


Though  somewhat  changed,  our  spirits  still 

Life's  choicest  gifts  enfold : 
The  dearest  blossoms  of  the  heart 

Still  cling  where  first  they  clung, 
And  bloom  as  bright  and  breathe  as  sweet 

As  when  we  both  were  young. 

IV. 

What  have  we  lost  with  passing  years? 

A  sunny  tress  or  two ; 
The  lip's  glad  echo  of  delight ; 

The  cheek's  fresh  roseate  hue. 
"What  have  we  gained  with  passing  years  ? 

Ah  !  treasures  that  repay 
Our  souls  for  that  unreal  wealth 

Which  Time  hath  borne  away. 

V. 

We'  ve  gained  a  love  more  pure  and  deep 

Than  youth's  glad  hours  could  know — 
A  love  that  sweetens  every  care, 

And  softens  every  woe. 
Our  children  sing  us  merrier  songs 

Than  early  hope  once  sung  : 
Our  lives  are  happier,  holier  now, 

Than  when  we  both  were  young. 


52  NO    LONGER    YOUXG. 


VI. 

Then  let  us  not  regret  the  light 

That  fades  from  morning's  skies, 
While  such  a  cloudless  sunset  smiles 

Before  our  charmed  eyes — 
Our  evening  hymns  may  be  as  sweet 

As  those  we  earliest  sung ; 
Our  grateful  hearts  be  blest,  although 

We  are  no  longer  young. 


LINES 

ON     TIIE      DEATH     OF     DANIEL     -WEBSTER. 
I. 

DEJECTED,  'mid  earth's  mighty  band 
Of  nations,  see  Columbia  stand, 

A  stricken  mourner  now  f 
Wo  ! — for  her  starry  diadem 
Hath  lost  another  priceless  gem — 

Wo  for  her  darkened  brow  1 

II. 

Alas,  how  fast  they  fade  away — 
Those  living  stars  of  purest  ray  ! 

But  late,  in  southern  skies, 
Paled  one  most  luminously  bright, 
Now,  in  the  north,  a  grander  light 

Along  tli'  horizon  dies. 

III. 

Well  may  Columbia  weep  and  wail, 
Well  may  her  children  load  the  gale 

With  Sorrow's  solemn  hymn  : 


54  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


For  sudden  darkness,  like  a  pall, 
Seems  over  earth's  domain  to  fall, 

When  such  a  light  grows  diin; 

IV. 

How  oft  will  Time  reverse  his  glass*, 
How  many  a  varying  year  will  pass 

Ere  we  again  can  see 
His  like,  whose  loss  we  mourn  to-day — 
Then  let  the  tide  of  grief  have  way  ; 

Let  it  flow  fast  and  free. 

V. 
Hark !  now  o'er  valley  hill  and  plain, 

Mournfully  floats  the  funeral  strain — 

How  loud  the  chorus  swells ! 

Well  may  it  echo  far  and  wide, 

For  that  majestic  music-tide 

A  world's  great  sorrow  tells 

VI. 

No  voice  is  mute ;  no  lip  is  still ; 
No  heart  but  doth  responsive  thrill 

To  the  unwelcome  tale ! 
From  hamlets  lone,  from  village  homes 
And  crowded  towns  the  murmur  comes, — 

One  universal  wail ! 


DANIEL   WEBSTER.  55 


VII. 

The  nation's  friend  is  gone — That  voice, 
Whose  tones  bade  listening  crowds  rejoice, 

On  earth  shall  wake  no  more ; 
Its  eloquent  pleadings  in  the  cause 
Of  Freedom's  great  and  sacred  laws, 

Are  now  forever  o'er. 

VIII. 

The  nation's  friend  indeed  ! — the  Sage, 
Whose  counsels,  to  his  land  and  age, 

Were  like  a  beacon  light : 
Whose  spirit,  in  the  stormiest  hour, 
Swayed  senates  with  resistless  power, 

And  led  them  still  aright. 

IX. 

Alas,  that  one  so  wisely  great, 

So  priceless  here,  should  meet  the  fate 

Of  lowlier  sons  of  earth  ! 
Alas,  that  from  the  cold,  dark  grave, 
A  nation's  reverence  might  not  save 

A  mind  of  such  rare  worth ! 

X. 

"  Where  shall  his  sepulchre  be  made  ? 
"  Where  shall  the  mighty  dead  be  laid?" 
Columbia  weeping  cries — 


56  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 


Ah,  let  us  choose  some  hallowed  place 
Where  sleep  the  noblest  of  their  race — 

There  let  his  proud  tomb  rise. 

XI. 

Yet  stay — for  Nature  murmurs  low 
From  her  serenest  haunts,  "Ah,  no  ! 

"  Give  up  thy  dead  to  me. 
"  Upon  the  lone  and  quiet  shore 
"  Where  sleep  his  fathers,  gone  before, 

"  Let  his  last  slumbers  be." 

Xii. 

And  so,  in  simple  beauty  there, 
Where  all  is  peaceful  pure  and  fair, 

Behold  the  patriot's  bed  ! 
Lowly  and  unadorned — yet  grand 
As  costliest  couch,  in  proudest  land, 

For  mightiest  monarch  spread. 

XIII. 

Yes,  grand  indeed — that  narrow  bound ; 
And  truly  consecrated  ground, 

As  saintly  shrine  or  grot. 
All  that  could  bow  to  changeless  fate, 
All  that  was  mortal  of  the  great, 

Sleeps  well  in  such  a  spot. 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  57 


XIV. 

What  need  of  marble  tomb  or  shrine  ? 
What  need  of  graven  verse  or  line, 

To  laud  the  statesman's  name  ? 
For  Time,  as  ages  onward  sweep, 
Will  still  the  lofty  record  keep — 

The  record  of  his  fame. 


THE    MARBLE    STATUE. 


[The  reader  will  perceive  that  this  poem  is  a  tribute  to  the  memory 
of  the  unfortunate  Countess  D'Ossola.  Her  melancholy  fate,  to 
gether  with  that  of  her  husband  and  child,  must  be  still  fresh  in 
the  minds  of  all — therefore  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe, 
that  the  actual  circumstances  of  the  tragedy  were  very  nearly 
in  accordance  with  those  related  in  the  poem.] 


AMID  the  classic  shades  of  ancient  Rome 
A  gifted  Sculptor  toiled — His  ready  hand, 
Obedient  to  the  mandate  of  his  will, 
Shaped  the  rude  block  so  cunningly,  it  grew 
Instinct  with  life  and  beauty.     Long  he  wrought, — 
Patient  and  tireless  ever,  for  his  heart 
Enshrined  the  flame  of  G-enius ; — that  pure  ray 
Made  every  labor  sweeter  than  repose, 
And  set,  high  o'er  the  darksome  night  of  toil, 
The  luminous  stars  of  joy. 

The  Sculptor's  home 

And  native  land  were  far  beyond  the  sea — 
And  oft,  amid  his  sterner  darker  thoughts, 
Like  angel-figures  in  a  troubled  dream, 
Rose  gentle  memories  of  his  early  home. 
Already  in  that  far  off  home,  his  name 
"Was  uttefcd  proudly.     Thousands  there,  had  paid 


THE   MARBLE    STATUE.  59 


Heart-homage  to  the  eloquent  loveliness 

Of  shapes  his  hand  had  wrought.     Like  music-tones, 

Wafted  o'er  ocean  waves,  came  oft  a  sound 

Sweet  to  his  listening  ear.     The  murmur  rose 

And,  gathering  power,  re-echoed  far  and  wide — 

It  was  the  voice  of  praise — praise  from  his  own 

Free,  happy,  prosperous  land.     How  glorious  stood, 

'Mid  earth's  great  band  of  Nations,  that  young  land ! 

How  thrilled  the  dreamer's  soul  with  the  proud  thought 

That  he  might  do  it  honor ! — Well  he  knew 

The  sons  of  Genius  hallow  still  the  soil 

That  gives  them  birth.     What  sweeter  thought  could  shed 

Light  o'er  the  long  day's  toil  ? 

And  now  he  sought 

To  shape  the  semblance  of  a  Man  who,  late, 
Had  been  his  country's  boast — One  of  the  props 
That  held  her  greatness  up — A  statesman,  wise, 
High  souled,  pure  hearted,  firm  and  true 
To  virtue's  living  principles.     The  lip 
That  oft  had  breathed  rich  strains  to  crowds  enthralled, 
Was  voiceless  now,  and  th'  inspired  mind 
That  sent  such  thrilling  music  to  the  lip, 
Had,  like  a  summer  sun,  in  splendor  set. 
A  night  of  sadness  rested  on  the  land 
Reft  of  that  starry  light.     The  nation  mourned — 
Not  with  a  passionate  grief  that  soothes  itself 


60  THE   MARBLE   STATUE. 


By  varied  expression,  but  a  still, 
Voiceless,  abiding  sorrow.     Long  the  name 
Of  their  departed  statesman,  echoing  there, 
'Mid  peopled  cities  and  green  forest  homes, 
Burthened  each  sigh  of  Memory  with  regret. 

To  give  back  to  his  country,  so  bereaved, 
A  Likeness  of  the  Lost,  was  now  the  hope 
That  set  to  muSic  all  the  Sculptor's  thoughts. 
In  unison  with  every  skilful  stroke, 
His  heart-throbs  beat,  and,  by  that  harmony 
Of  hand  and  spirit,  soon  the  fine  result 
Of  noble  toil  was  gained.     Ere  long  he  stood 
Before  the  finished  work,  and  felt  it  thrill 
His  inmost  being  with  that  pure,  deep  joy 
That  is  the  soul's  sweet  recompense,  whene'er 
Its  lofty  tasks  are  worthily  performed. 

The  air  was  vocal  with  the  busy  tread 
Of  Art's  admiring  votaries.     Many  came, 
And  lingered  long,  then  mutely  turned  away- 
Paying  their  heart's  deep  homage  silently ; 
"While  others  gave  their  glad  approval  voice 
In  gracious  words.     These  tributes  of  applause 
Fell  on  the  Artist's  sense,  as  summer  rain 
Falls  on  the  thirsting  flower. 

'Mid  those  who  came 


THE     MARBLE     STATUE.  61 


To  render  homage  to  that  stately  Form, 

~\Vas  a  fair  Dame,  who  viewed  the  noble  work 

With  searching,  soul-lit  gaze.     Spell-bound  she  bent 

Before  that  silent  Shape.     To  her  it  spake, 

With  an  eloquent  and  beguiling  voice, 

Of  distant  friends,  and  old,  beloved  scenes. 

Her  childhood's  home  was  in  that  far-off  land 

Whence  came  the  Sculptor — Soon  that  laud  would  be 

Enriched  by  this  last  trophy  of  his  skill  ; 

And  with  this  thought  came  yearnings  fond  and  deep 

To  see  once  more  the  haunts  of  by-gone  days — 

In  truth,  she  saw  them  now,  for  with  a  power 

Like  that  Enchanter's  own,  the  Marble  Form 

Had  conjured  up  before  her  spirit-gaze, 

Bright,  fairy  pictures  of  her  native  land  : 

Green  hills  and  lovely  vales  and  waving  woods 

Rose  softly  on  her  sight — gladdening  her  soul 

With  memories  of  the  Past. 

Long,  long  she  gazed 

Upon  that  pale,  mute  Form — blessing  it  still 
For  the  bright  dreams  it  brought.     Ah,  well  might  she 
Feel  the  deep  spell  that  lives  in  shapes  of  beauty  ! 
Her  mind  was  like  a  shrine  o'erfilled  with  rare 
And  costly  treasures — richly  dowered  it  was 
With  wealth  that  Learning,  patient  laborer,  finds 
In  the  deep  mines  of  Knowledge.     She  had  won, 


62  THE    MARBLE    STATUE. 


While  yet  the  bloom  of  girlhood  flushed  her  cheek, 

The  laurel  wreath  of  fame.     As  now  she  stood, 

Giving  most  gracions  audience  to  the  crowd 

Of  sweet  and  tender  memories  that  came 

Clustering  around  her  heart,  there  spread  such  light 

Of  inspiration  o'er  her  speaking  face, 

Ye  might  have  deemed  her  th'  embodied  form 

Of  Genius  worshipping  at  Art's  pure  shrine. 

*  #  *  *  * 

The  ship  that  bore  the  Sculptor's  marble  child 
From  the  fair  clime  that  smiled  upon  its  birth, 
Sped  gaily  o'er  the  sea.     The  sunlit  wave, 
The  fair  and  freshening  winds,  the  cloudless  heavens 
All  smiled  upon  its  voyage.     It  was  a  morn 
Of  glorious  beauty,  and  the  stately  bark, 
As  light  it  bounded  on  its  trackless  way, 
Seemed  dancing  to  the  music  of  the  breeze ; 
Rejoicing  hearts  danced  to  that  music  too — 
For  Ocean's  perils  now  were  well-nigh  past, 
And  Home's  sweet  haven  near. 

With  those  who  tread 

The  vessel's  deck,  this  balmy  summer  morn, 
Behold  the  lady  we  have  named  as  one 
Of  Nature's  favored  children.     She  hath  dwelt 
For  many  years  in  Italy's  soft  clime; 
And  there  her  thirsting  spirit  ofttimes  drank 


THE     MARBLJ3    STATUE.  63 


Draughts  of  pure  joy  from  many  a  classic  fouut. 
But  now  a  new  delight  o'erflows  her  heart — 
Her  native  land  is  near,  and  every  thought, 
Like  a  glad  bird  returning  to  its  nest, 
Flics,  fluttering  fondly,  homeward. — 

Near  her  stands 

A  man  of  stately  mien,  whose  dark  bright  eye 
Rests  ever  on  her  face  with  looks  of  love. 
His  thread  of  life  is  closely  blent  with  hers, 
And  tho',  for  her  dear  sake,  he  leaveth  now 
His  own  fair  clime,  he  feels  no  fond  regrets; — 
Where'er  she  dwells,  there  will  all  earth,  for  him, 
Be  robed  in  hues  of  beauty — there  will  be 
His  "  own  heart's  happy  home." 

Another  form 

Flits  like  a  sunbeam  near  them — 'Tis  a  child — 
A  lovely  one,  whose  infant  features  blend 
The  beauties  of  two  climes.     Its  large,  dark  eyes, 
Lit  by  a  softened  splendor,  sweet  tho'  sad, 
Are  like  to  those  of  its  Italian  sire; 
While  the  soft  rosy  lips,  and  blue-veined  skin, 
And  glowing  cheeks  bespeak  the  mother's  blood. 
How  beautiful  they  are  !     How  blessed  those  three, 
Wiiose  blended  beings  make  the  PERFECT  THIRD, 
The  chord  of  sweetest  music !     Lo  !  they  stand, 
Encircled  by  an  atmosphere  of  bliss — 


64  THE    MARBLE    STATUE. 


Rich  in  the  soul's  best  -wealth — Life  smiles  to  them. 
Fair  as  that  summer  morn. 

The  ship  speeds  on — 

Day  wanes,  and  eve  draws  near,  but  not  serene 
As  the  bright  morning  promised — Troops  of  clouds 
Rush  into  view,  and  march  athwart  the  sky, 
Like  eager  warriors,  hastening  to  the  fight. 
Black  grows  the  wave  beneath  the  angry  scowl 
Of  those  malignant  clouds — No  smiling  ray, 
Peeping  from  star  or  moon,  sheds  hope  and  cheer 
Upon  the  gloomy  scene.     A  boding  sound — 
A  voice  of  evil  prophecy  is  heard, 
Whispering  and  moaning  thro'  the  troubled  air. 
Soon,  from  their  mystic  lair,  the  bellowing  winds, 
Like  savage  beasts  of  prey,  rush  madly  forth, — 
All  night  they  howl  and  roar  along  the  deep ; 
All  night  the  waves  hurl  back  that  angry  sound, 
Yet,  like  a  brave  soul  battling  with  stern  Fate, 
The  good  ship  struggles  on.     Amid  the  gloom, 
Each  pallid  trembler  on  her  heaving  deck, 
Pours  forth,  from  shivering  lips,  a  prayer  for  aid- 
Man's  organ  tone,  and  woman's  feebler  voice, 
With  Childhood's  plaintive  wail,  are  sadly  blent 
In  that  appealing  strain. 

No  creature  there, 
That  wore  the  human  form,  was  still  and  calm, 


THE    MAIIBLE   STATUE.  65 


Save  the  pale  Statue  in  its  cabin-niche. 

There,  swathed  in  snow-white,  many-folded  shroud, 

Shrined  in  a  deep  Sarcophagus,  and  stored 

Far  from  all  contact  with  ignobler  things, 

It  lay  like  some  pure  sleeper  of  the  tomb, 

Unconscious  in  its  visionless  repose, 

Of  all  the  misery  that  those  hearts  above 

So  keenly,  wildly  felt. 

Morn  came  at  last — 

A  pale  and  tearful  morn — that  o'er  the  world 
Peeped  with  a  timid  glance,  as  loathe  to  see 
The  devastations  of  the  vanished  night. 
Th'  uncertain  ray  spread  o'er  the  sobbing  deep, 
Yet  fell  on  nothing  save  the  crested  waves. 
Where  was  the  stately  vessel  ?     Where  her  crew  ? 
Where  the  fond,  smiling  group  that  graced  her  deck  ? 
And  where  her  rich,  rare  freight,  the  Marble  Forai? 
All  lost !  all  by  that  dread  abyss,  entomed ! 

Slowly,  reluctantly  the  traitorous  waves 
Give  back  their  stolen  hoard — Alas,  how  changed! 
Those  three  fond  beings,  mother,  sire  and  child, 
But  yesterday  so  full  of  life  and  love, 
So  radiant  with  the  roseate  flush  of  hope, 
Now  pale  and  mute  on  ocean's  threshold  lie- 
Hushed  to  the  sleep  of  death !     What  sadder  sight, 
5 


66  THE    MARBLE    STATUE. 


In  his  far-reaching  glances  o'er  the  earth, 
Could  that  morn's  sun  behold? 

The  Sculptor's  work 
Lay  long  in  coral  chambers  of  the  sea, 
For  ocean  nymphs,  enamoured  of  the  Form, 
Wreathed  round  it  snowy  arms,  and  held  it  fast 
In  passionate  embrace — But  longing  eyes 
Were  waiting  to  behold  it.     Busy  hands 
And  willing  hearts  toiled  bravely,  'til  they  won. 
The  valued  treasure  from  the  Naiad's  home — 
A  kingly  shape  emerging  to  the  light, 
It  came  at  last  in  stately  beauty  forth ; 
And  as  men  gazed  upon  its  mute,  grave  lips, 
They  half  believed  (so  life-like  every  line) 
Those  pallid  portals  would  unclose,  and  give 
Utterance  to  well-known  tones — tones  that  would  teii 
The  sad  and  solemn  secrets  of  the  Deep. 

No  voice,  no  sound  may  issue  from  thy  lips, 
Thou  silent  Shape  !  yet  ever  more,  methiuks, 
Thou'lt  eloquently  speak  to  thoughtful  minds. 
And  not  alone  wilt  thou  discourse  of  him 
Whose  cunning  hand  so  deftly  fashioned  thee, 
Or  him,  the  patriot,  whose  majestic  form 
Thou  imagest  so  well ; — but  thou  wilt  speak 
Also  of  them  who  shared  thy  ocean  voyage — 


THE     MARBLE    STATUE.  67 


The  hapless   ones,  whose  hearts'  fond  hymn  of  joy 
Death  so  untimely  hushed.     Perchance  that,  now, 
(All  sorrow  past,)  they  haply  roam  in  worlds 
Where  forms  of  beauty  do  not  change,  or  die ; 
Yet  still  their  spirits  seem  to  linger  here, 
And  still  their  gentle  memories  are  linked, 
In  immortality  of  fame,  to  thee, 
Thou  mute  Historian  of  their  mournful  fate. 


CUPS   OF   GOLD. 
I. 

Little  "Walter,  Fortune's  petted  darling, 

Chanced  one  summer  day, 
Spite  of  watchful  nurse  and  tender  mother, 

From  his  home  to  stray. 
On  the  country's  sweet  and  simple  pleasures 

All  his  thoughts  intent — 
Dreaming  still  of  birds  and  flowers  and  pebbles, 

Fast  and  far  he  went. 

n. 

Near  a  meadow  gemmed  with  radiant  blossoms 

Paused  the  happy  child ; 
There  a  group  of  rustic  lads  were  playing, 

One  ran  forth  and  smiled, 
Saying  "  thou  hast  come,  my  little  master, 

From  the  town  I  see  ; 
Wilt  thou  join  us  in  our  merry  pastimes  ? 

Wilt  thou  play  with  me  ?" 

III. 

Walter,  at  the  homely-clad  young  stranger 
Shyly  looked  askance, 


C  U  P  S  0  F  G  0  L  D.  69 


Whilst  a  childish  pity,  scorn  and  wonder v 

Mingled  in  his  glance, 
As  he  mused — "  'tis  very  strange  his  mother 

Does  not  curl  his  hair  ; — 
Still  more  strange  his  father  should  allow  him 

Such  poor  clothes  to  wear." 

IV. 
Then  he  spake  aloud — "  I  cannot  join  you — 

That  would  never  do — 
My  father's  rich  and  great — he  does  not  let  me 

Play  with  boys  like  you." 
Soft  and  tuneful  were  the  other's  accents 

As  he  made  reply — 
"  I've  a  Father,  too,  who's  rich  and  mighty, 

But  he  dwells  on  High." 

V. 

"  Mine,"  said  "Walter,  "  gives  me  toys  and  treasures, 

Splendid  to  behold ! 
I  have,  for  myself,  a  plate  of  silver, 

And  a  cup  of  gold." 
Brightened  then  with  rays  of  earnest  feeling 

Eyes  of  softest  blue, 
As  their  little  owner  gently  answered — 

"  I  have  nice  things  too. — 


70  CUPS    OF    GOLD. 


VI. 
"  My  Heavenly  Father  's  very  generous  to  me — 

As  for  cups  of  gold, 
I  can  show  you  more  this  very  minute 

Than  your  hands  can  hold." — 
Saying  this,  he  ran  off  toward  the  meadow — 

Many  flowers  grew  there — 
Fast  he  plucked  the  buttercups  so  golden, 
Then,  with  joyous  air, 

VII. 
Hastening  back,  he  shouted — "  Here,  behold  them! 

See  how  bright  they  shine  ! 
Yours,  I  think,  cannot  be  half  so  lovely 

As  these  cups  of  mine : 
You  should  only  see  them  in  the  morning 

When  they're  filled  with  dew — 
Butterflies  and  bees  are  humming  round  them, 

Drinking  from  them  too. 

VIII. 
Think  how  rich  and  good  must  be  MY  Father 

If  such  cups  as  these, 
Not  alone  he  gives  to  orphan  children, 

But  to  flies  and  bees." 

IX. 

Oh,  the  precious  lore  on  Nature's  pages 
Written  out  so  fair ! 


CUPSOFGOLD.  71 


What  of  all  the  Schoolmen's  wise  instruction 

Can  with  this  compare  ? 
Still  it  spcaketh  to  the  heart  of  Childhood 

Words  of  truth  and  love ; 
Still  it  lifts  th'  expanding  soul's  pure  instincts 

To  their  Source  above. 

X. 

Little  Walter  reached  his  home  at  evening, 

Safe  from  every  harm — 
Showed  his  parents  all  his  flowery  treasures — 

Hushed  their  wild  alarm. 
Oft,  in  dainty  words,  the  day's  adventure 

O'er  and  o'er  was  told, 
For  the  boy  had  drank  sweet  draughts  of  knowledge 

From  those  "  cups  of  gold." 


THE    ROBIN'S    HYMN   OF   JOY 


IT  was  a  inoru  in  spring,  yet  Nature  wore 
A  wintry  aspect  still. — On  sunniest  plain, 
Our  eyes  could  scarce  discern  the  delicate  hue 
Of  the  upspringing  grass.     The  leafless  trees, 
Shivered  like  half-clad  sons  of  Poverty, 
And  shrank  from  rude  assaults  of  chilling  winds. 
A  cold,  dark  mist,  brooded  o'er  hill  and  plain ; 
The  blue  serene  of  heaven  was  veiled  by  clouds ; 
And  the  wide  landscape  looked  a  dreary  world 
That  never  more,  beneath  the  laughing  sun, 
Would  wake  to  joyous  life.     The  swelling  buds 
Scarce  dared  to  peep  from  their  mysterious  cells; 
And  timid  wild-flowers,  waiting  for  the  kiss 
Of  gentle  southern  breezes,  ventured  not 
To  lift  their  pretty  heads  from  earth's  warm  breast. 
E'en  the  brave  violet,  ever  first  to  give 
A  breath  of  sweetest  welcome  to  the  spring, 
Would  not  believe  the  gladsome  days  had  come, 
But  hid  herself  in  doubt,  and  waited  still. 
Not  so  a  robin,  that  on  neighboring  spray 
Alit,  and  sang  in  such  "  full-throated  ease," 
That  far-off  hill  tops  echoed  to  his  voice. 
HE  did  not  fear  or  doubt ; — HE  did  not  wait 


THE  RO B  I  N'S  II  Y  M  X.  73 


For  sunny  messengers,  or  heralds  fair, 
To  tell  him  spring  had  come.     Like  a  brave  heart 
That  shapes  its  own  bright  destiny,  he  sought 
To  MAKE  the  good  he  wished  for.     The  reward 
Came,  as  it  ever  does,  with  noble  effort. — 
That  song-itself  made  all  the  landscape  seem 
Rich  with  the  hues  of  spring.      The  morn  sped  on  ; 
And  still  that  tireless  minstrel  poured  abroad 
Drops  from  the  sweet  fount  in  his  own  full  heart. 
No  stinted  stream — no  faint  or  tremulous  trill 
Of  undecided  joy ;  but  a  full  burst 
Of  rich  and  gushing  gladness — such  a  sound 
As  straightway  takes  the  soul  in  bondage  sweet, 
And  bears  it  off  on  floods  of  happy  thought. 
Peal  after  peal  rang  out !     The  cedar  grove, 
Where  that  high-priest  of  Nature  woke  his  hymn, 
Became  a  temple  of  melodious  praise — 
Not  one  alone,  but  many  grateful  hearts 
Seemed  offering  up  most  tuneful  worship,  there, 
To  Nature's  unseen  God  ! 

How  full  of  faith, 

How  touching,  how  sublime  that  song  of  joy, 
Which,  cleaving  mist  and  darkness,  floated  up 
E'en  to  the  sun  that  smiled  beyond  the  cloud! 


SISTER    ROSE. 


The  pretty  legend,  that  suggested  this  ballad,  is  well  told  in  a  work 
[written    l>y  W.  H.  Maxwell,  entitled  "  Wild  Sports  of  the  West."] 


I. 

THE  vesper  hymn's  soft  music  stole, 

In  strains  of  soothing  power, 
Thro'  a  convent's  solemn  corridors 

At  Evening's  stilly  hour — 
When  suddenly  the  anthem  died 

On  every  faltering  tongue, 
As  loudly  at  the  portal 

A  bugle  summons  rung. 

II. 

Pale  grew  the  gentle  sisterhood 

With  wonder  and  affright, 
For  rarely  to  those  holy  walls 

Came  visitant  at  night ; 
But  the  Lady  Abbess  calmly  rose, 

An&  murmuring  briefest  prayer, 
Signed  thrice  the  cross,  then  sought  ot  lea 

Who  claimed  her  pious  care. 


SISTER    ROSE.  75 


in. 

This  answer  came — "  A  noble  knight, 

Whilst  hunting  on  the  plain, 
Has  lost  his  path  and  wandered  far 

From  all  his  valiant  train. 
The  wind  is  chill,  the  heath  is  lone, 

No  moonbeam  cheers  his  way — 
Will  ye  not  give  the  wearied  man 

Rest  here,  till  dawn  of  day  ?" 

IV. 
"G-o  forth  again,"  the  Abbess  said, 

"  To  ask  his  rank  and  name — " 
"  Lord  of  Iveagh,  Cormac  More," 

Was  then  the  word  that  came. 
'<  Ah !  Cormac  More !  whose  bounty  oft 

These  holy  walls  has  blessed  ! 
Haste — bid  him  in, — we  gladly  give 

Welcome  to  such  a  guest." 

V. 

And  soon,  while  louder  blew  the  blast 

And  wilder  rose  the  storm, 
The  wandering  noble  sat  within 

A  chamber  bright  and  warm ; 


76  SISTER    ROSE. 


His  board  was  spread  with  sparkling  wine, 

With  rich  and  dainty  fare, 
While  pious  maidens,  closely  veiled, 

Served  him  with  zealous  care. 

VI. 
One  of  these  maids  had  loveliest  form 

And  moved  with  matchless  grace ; 
Yet  vainly  sought  the  knight  to  pierce 

The  veil  that  hid  her  face ; 
Still,  like  a  floating  cloud  that  dims 

The  moon's  celestial  light, 
That  gauzy  drapery  hung  between 

To  mock  the  gazer's  sight. 

VII. 
At  length  his  rapier's  jewelled  hilt 

(Was  it  by  happy  chance  ?) 
Caught  the  soft  tissue,  and  it  fell, 

Revealing  to  his  glance, 
A  face  of  youthful  loveliness, 

A  beauty  such  as  beams 
But  rarely  on  a  mortal  eye, 

Save  in  the  world  of  dreams. 

VIII. 

As  might  a  tender  violet 

Shrink  from  the  sun's  warm  ray, 


SISTEBKO8E.  77 


If  suddenly  the  winds  had  rent 

Its  veil  of  leaves  away — 
So  shrank  the  timid,  trembling  maid, 

O'ercome  by.  modest  fear, 
Seeking  to  hide  her  blushing  cheek 

From  the  bright  glances  near. 

IX. 
'Twas  but  an  instant  that  she  stood 

Before  th'  enraptured  knight  ; 
'T  was  but  an  instant,  ere  she  turned 

To  vanish  from  his  sight : 
Yet  in  that  moment's  fleeting  space 

Love's  mystic  passion-flower 
Burst  forth  to  full  and  perfect  bloom, 

Like  buds  in  tropic  bower. 

X. 

Tho'  soon  the  beauteous  vision  fled, 

It  left  a  light  behind 
That  wove  a  golden  tissue  round 

The  gazer's  charmed  mind. 
A  captive  now  in  bondage  sweet, 

He  bowed  his  willing  soul, 
And  yielded  all  its  hopes  and  dreams. 

To  Love's  divine  control. 


78  SISTER    ROSE. 


XL 

Ths  night  sped  on — untouched  remained 

The  tempting  wine  and  food ; 
Unheeded  died  the  fire  away; 

Untrimined  the  tapers  stood. 
Hour  after  hour  the  noble  sat, 

Nor  marked  the  dawn  draw  nigh, 
Nor  waked  from  thought,  'til  matin  hymns 

Pealed  to  the  morning  sky. 

XII. 

And  when  the  Lady  Abbess  came 

To  greet  her  honored  guest, 
He  spake  not  of  his  evening  fare, 

Or  of  his  nightly  rest ; 
But  quickly  questioned  of  the  maid 

Whose  charms  had  thrilled  his  heart, 
Then  hung  upon  these  answered  words 

As  they  of  life  were  part — 

XIII. 
"  She  is  not  of  our  order,  knight, 

Our  gentle  Sister  Rose; 
She's  but  an  orphan  pupil  here ; 

Not  bound  by  holy  vows — 
Yet  she  is  loved  and  cherished  well, 
For  she  is  good  as  fair : 


SISTER    II  0  S  E.  79 


Her  youth,  her  innocence  and  worth 
Claim  holiest  watch  and  care." 

XIV. 
"  A  friendless  orphan,"  mused  the  knight — 

"Now  blessed  be  wealth  and  power! 
I  never  knew  their  worth,  methinks, 

'Til  this  auspicious  hour. 
Kind  Lady  Abbess,  let  me  speak 

One  word  to  this  young  maid — 
One  word — no  more — and  for  the  boon 

Thy  church  shall  be  repaid." 

XV. 

The  smiling  Lady  Abbess  went, 

The  smiling  sister  came — 
She  only  heard  that  one  low  word, 

Yet  all  may  guess  its  name. 
The  maiden's  cheek  was  bright  b>' 

But  richer  now  its  hue — 
Ah  !  never  face  so  fair,  but  Love 

Could  lend  it  charms  anew  ! 

XVI. 

Lightly,  on  every  opening  flower, 
Danced  Morning's  gladsome  ray ; 


80  SISTER   HOSE. 


Yet  lightlier  danced  young  Cormac's  heart 

As  fast  he  rode  away : 
Still  was  he  dreaming,  as  he  went. 

Of  Eden-hours  to  come, 
When  Sister  Rose,  his  promised  bride, 

Should  grace  his  lordly  home. 

XVII. 

Soon  came  the  joyous  nuptial  day, 

Remembered  well  and  long, 
For  bards  its  varied  splendors  told 

In  many  a  tuneful  song ; 
And  minstrels  still,  in  glowing  strains, 

Re-echo  far  and  wide 
The  bravery  of  Iveagh's  lord, 

The  beauty  of  his  bride. 

XVIII. 

If,  in  the  shade  of  cloister  walls, 
Bright  blushed  that  gentle  flower, 

Oh  !  think  how  richer  far  its  bloom 

Within  a  love-lit  bower  ! 
And  if,  amid  the  brave  and  true, 

Cormac  was  proud  before, 
Oh,  think  how  prouder  throbb'd  his  heart 

When  sueh  a  Ross  it  wore. 


S  I  S  T  E  11    R  0  S  E.  81 


XIX. 
What  generous  bounty  did  he  give — 

What  liberal  tribute  pay 
To  all  the  holy  patron  saints 

Of  that  old  cloister  grey ! 
And  he  who  rarely  prayed  before, 

Prayed  now,  'til  life  was  done, 
For  blessings  on  the  sacred  place 

Where  his  sweet  bride  was  won. 


BIRTH-DAY    VERSES. 


I. 

HERE — could  my  pleadings  or  my  mandate  stay  thee- 
Oh,  fleeting  Time !  here  would  I  fain  delay  thee. 
My  life  is  lovely  here ; — its  changeful  tide 
May  not,  in  after  years,  so  calmly  glide. 

II. 

As  wandering  voyagers  linger  near  a  shore 
Verdant  and  bright,  but  which  they  never  more 
Shall  see  again,  so,  on  this  pleasant  stage 
Of  Life's  swift  journey,  this  fair  golden  age, 
I  fain  would  pause  awhile.     The  scenes  I  see 
Around  me  now, — oh,  would  they  might  not  flee ! 

III. 

Far  off,  yet  plainly  visible,  appears 

The  fairy  landscape  of  my  childhood's  years ; 

The  misty  light,  the  soft  celestial  hue 

That  distance  lends,  but  gives  them  charms  anew. 

IV. 

Next  to  life's  Spring,  its  golden  summer  days 
Rise  up  and  smile  in  Memory's  faithful  rays : — 


BIRTH-DAY    VERSES.  83 


In  tliat  glad  season  all  the  laughing  Hours 

Danced  onward  crowned  with  light,  and  robed  with  flowers. 

V. 

Back  to  those  scenes  mine  eye  is  ofttinies  cast ; 
And  yet  I  sigh  not  for  the  vanished  past, 
For  still  the  landscape  smiles  serenely  fair, 
Still  sweetest  music  murmurs  in  the  air, 
Still  many  flowers  that,  graced  Youth's  early  dream, 
In  lingering  beauty  bloom,  by  mount  and  stream. 

VI. 

These  Autumn  days  !  methinks  I  love  them  more 
Than  all  the  gorgeous  ones  that  went  before ; 
This  is  the  heart's  glad  harvest,  this  the  time 
It  gathers  fruits  it  planted  in  life's  prime, 
Hoards  up  its  joys,  as  misers  do  their  gold, 
Or  reapers  garner  grain  from  Winter's  cold. 

VII. 

Thus  let  me  garner  mine — thus  count  each  joy, 
Thus  shield  them  well  from  storms  that  might  destroy. 
Let  Time  speed  on, — and  if  I  may  not  stand 
Longer  upon  the  pleasant  border-land 
That  youth  and  age  divides,  yet  can  I  go 
With  cheerful  footsteps  to  the  vale  below. 


MY     CHILDKEN. 

I. 
THEY  are  sportive  as  the  fairies 

That,  in  olden  days,  were  seen 
By  dreaming  poets,  dancing 

Upon  the  moonlit  green. 
Their  smiles  are  like  the  sunbeams 

That  kiss  a  summer  flower ; 
And  their  love  is  far  more  precious 

Than  richest  golden  dower. 

II. 
At  early  dawn,  their  voices 

So  tunefully  arise, 
I  seem  to  list  the  warbling 

Of  birds  'neath  morning  skies. 
And  at  twilight,  when  they  murmur 

Soft  and  low  their  evening  prayer, 
Celestial  Peace  and  Holiness 

Seem  brooding  in  the  air. 

III. 

As  all  day  long  they  wander, 
Like  sunbeams,  in  and  out, 

They  rouse  up  slumbering  Echo 
With  merry  laugh  or  shout ; 


MY    CHILDREN. 


85 


They  fill  my  home  with  music  ; 

They  flood  this  beating  heart 
With  such  full  tides  of  tenderness 

That  tears  of  rapture  start. 

IV. 

My  happy  little  pilgrims  ! 

Life's  march  they  now  begin, 
With  brows  untouched  by  sorrow, 

And  hearts  unstained  by  sin — 
Oh  !  might  they  thus  forever, 

'Mid  fairy  prospects  go, 
With  cloudless  skies  above  them. 

And  thornless  flowers  below ! 

V. 

But  vain  the  wish  to  keep  them 

Thus  innocently  gay  ; — 
Too  soon,  perchance,  sad  changes 

May  darken  o'er  their  way. 
Alas  !  they're  only  mortal, 

Although  so  pure  and  fair : 
No  mortal  love  can  shield  them 

From  the  common  lot  of  care. 

VI. 

Oh.!  Thou  who  dwellest  in  heave 
Great  Ruler  of  the  skies ! 


8G  MY    CHILDREN. 


Who  art  infinitely  Gracious, 

And  infinitely  Wise, 
Wilt  lend  thine  aid  to  keep  them 

From  sin  and  suffering  free  ? 
Wilt  teach  me  how  to  lead  them 

To  holiness  and  Thee  ? 


THE     WO  0  I N  G. 

AX     OLD     FABLE     IN    A     NEW     DRESS. 
I. 

In  days  of  old  was  born  a  maid, 

Dowered  with  a  sweet  beguiling  spell; 
Sunbeams  around  her  pathway  played, 

And  flowers  sprang  where  her  footsteps  fell. 
Her  eyes  were  lit  with  heavenly  fire ; 

Her  voice  was  sweet  as  seraph's  tone : 
All  hearts  were  moved  with  fond  desire 

To  call  this  charming  nymph  their  own. 

II. 

From  far  and  near  men  came  to  woo; 

Young  Wit  was  foremost  of  the  train : 
"  My  jokes,"  said  he,  "  are  arrows  true ; 

They'll  soon  a  brilliant  victory  gain." 
He  plied  those  shining  missiles  long ; 

He  wooed  with  many  a  merry  wile : 
But  sparkling  jest  and  sportive  song 

Could  ne'er  the  maiden's  heart  beguile. 

III. 

Next  Learning  came — a  stately  wight, 
Whose  mind  had  searched  the  orbs  above, 


88  WOOING. 


And  grasped  all  knowledge,  high  and  bright — 
All  save  the  "  gentle  craft  of  love." 

He  talked  of  history,  science,  art; 

He  wooed  the  maid  in  classic  phrase ; 

Yet  all  the  while  her  warm  young  heart 
G-rew  cold  beneath  his  formal  gaze. 

IV. 

Then  Fortune  came — a  dashing  blade, 

With  princely  garb  and  pompous  air : 
"  A  palace  is  my  home,"  he  said, 

"  Wilt  thou  sweet  nymph,  be  sovereign  there  ? 
"  Thy  stately  palace,"  she  replied, 

"  With  all  its  splendor  lures  not  me ; 
Its  two  grim  ushers,  Care  and  Pride, 

Still  bid  me  from  its  precincts  flee." 

V. 
Then  Genius  came — a  youth  so  pale, 

So  proud  and  yet  so  beauteous,  too ; 
'Twas  said  he  surely  could  not  fail 

The  coy  young  charmer  to  subdue. 
His  eye  had  stol'n  the  star's  pure  beam ; 

His  voice  had  caught  the  flow  of  song ; 
And  when  he  whispered  Love's  fond  theme, 

The  tranced  maiden  listened  long. 


WOOING.  89 


VI 

At  length  she  sighed,  "It  may  not  be ;" — 

And  soft  regret  crept  o'er  her  heart — 
"  Long  since,  alas  !  'twas  fate's  decree 

That  thou  and  I  should  dwell  apart. 
From  the  first  moment  of  our  birth, 

Far  different  paths  to  us  were  given; 
I  dwell  amid  the  flowers  of  earth — 

Thou  soarest  to  the  stars  of  heaven." 


VII. 

She  turned  away — perchance  to  bide 

The  tear  that  dimmed  her  eye's  soft  hue — 
When  lo  !  already  at  her  side, 

Another  suitor  met  her  view. 
This  was  a  youth  of  honest  toil, 

Of  lowly  birth  and  homely  name ; 
A  youth,  whose  store  of  wealth  was  small, 

Whose  deeds  were  all  "  unknown  to  fame." 

vm. 

Yet  long  and  truly  had  he  loved 

That  maiden  for  herself  alone; 
And  when  his  earnest  faith  was  proved, 

He  won  the  charmer  for  his  own. 


90  "W  GOING. 


Since  then,  through  all  earth's  storm  and  shine — 
Its  summer  days,  its  wintry  weather — 

Sweet  HAPPINESS — the  maid  divine — 
And  COMMON  SENSE  have  dwelt  together. 


THE    RED   HOSE   AND   THE   WHITE. 

I. 

A  MAIDEN,  fair  as  morning, 

Stood  near  a  rushing  stream  ; 
She  gazed  into  its  waters, 

And  dreamed  a  happy  dream  : 
And  e'en  the  while  she  dreamed  it, 

There  stole  unto  her  side 
A  smiling  youth  who  proffered 

A  rose-bud,  crimson  dyed. 

II. 

The  maid's  fair  cheek,  so  tinted 

By  Hope's  soft  flush  before, 
Grew  lovelier  with  Love's  blushes, 

'Til  the  rose-bud's  hue  it  wore ; 
And  though  her  lip  would  never 

The  wished-for  word  confess, 
Her  eye  in  timid  glances, 

Said  eloquently — YES  ! 

III. 
When  years  had  come  and  vanished, 

That  stream  still  sped  along, 
But  a  pale  and  thoughtful  woman 

Now  listened  to  its  song : 


92  RED    ROSE    AND    WHITE. 


She  watched  its  gliding  waters. 

She  loved  their  tuneful  flow, 
They  whispered  to  her  spirit 

Sweet  tales  of  "long  ago." 

IV. 

Bright  as  those  dancing  wavelets, 

And  musical  as  they, 
Had  been  her  heart's  glad  fancies 

In  youth's  unclouded  day ; 
Now  merry  waves   still   chanted 

Their  love-song  to  the  shore, 
But,  alas  !  Life's  fairy  melodies 

Sang  in  her  heart  no  more ! 

V. 

That  stream,  the  flowers  beside  it, 

The  skies  that  o'er  it  shone, 
All  kept  their  early  beauty, 

But  hers,  for  aye,  was  gone  ! 
While  there  she  mused,  in  sadness, 

That  Youth's  sweet  dreams  should  close 
One  came  to  her,  who  offered 

A  simple,  snow-white  rose. 

VI. 

A  bright,  glad  flush  of  feeling 
Passed  o'er  that  faded  cheek, 


RED    ROSE    AND    WHITE.  93 


And  eyes  shot  forth  a  tenderness 
Too  deep  for  lips  to  speak ; 

She  hid  the  tears  that  gathered, 
She  only  softly  said, 

"  Dear  friend,  methinks  white  roses 
Are  sweeter  far  than  red." 

VII. 
But  he  who  gazed  upon  her 

With  eye  so  fond  and  kind, 
Knew  well  what  deeper  musings 

"Were  passing  in  her  mind : 
He  knew  that  pale,  pure  blossom 

To  her  was  symbol  true 
Of  a  love  that  through  all  changes, 

Had  gained  a  holier  hue. 

VIII. 
Missed  she  the  gorgeous  beauty 

Of  that  red  rose  of  spring, 
When  Autumn's  tear-gemmed  blossom 

Could  so  much  sweetness  bring  ? 
Missed  he  the  maiden  blushes 

That  charmed  his  soul  in  youth, 
When  in  their  stead  were  beaming 

Such  looks  of  love  and  truth  ? 


THE    LITTLE   TROUT'S    SOLILOQUY. 


I. 

"  WHO  leads  a  life  so  merry  as  mine  ?" 
Said  a  little  brook- trout,  one  summer  day. 
As  snug  in  his  crystal  home  he  lay — 
Half  in  shadow,  and  half  in  shine — 
"Who  leads  a  life  so  merry  as  mine?" 

II. 

"The  lily  that  nods  on  the  wave 
Has  a  pleasant  time,  to  be  sure ; 
But  HER  joy  is  never  secure — 
She's  a  fragile  creature,  and  cannot  save 
Her  beauty  long — Rude  hands  may  break 
Her  delicate  stem,  and  cruelly  shake 
The  pearly  drops  from  her  form  of  grace, 
Then  leave  her  to  die  in  some  lonely  place. 

III. 

"The  butterfly  dwells,  it  is  true, 

In  the  bosoms  of  honied  flowers; 

But  HIS  pleasures,  tho'  bright  for  a  few  brief  hours, 

Fleet  away  like  drops  of  dew 

Which  the  sun's  ardent  glances  pursue; 


LITTLE  TROUT'S  SOLILOQUY.  95 


His  life  is  only  a  vanishing  clreani — 
It  fades  and  dies  with  Daylight's  beam. 

IV. 

"  Then  the  birds — oh,  how  gaily  they  sing, 
As  they  mount  in  the  soft  summer  air ! 
How  joyous  their  lot,  and  how  free  from  care, 
Could  they  ever  warble  and  soar  up  there ! 
But  wearily  droops  their  wing — 
And,  perchance,  when  they  seek  for  rest, 
Some  spoiler  hath  stolen  their  nest: 
Or  perchance,  on  some  luckless  day, 
A  fowler  wandering  that  way, 
Hushes  forever  their  heart's  happy  lay. 

V. 

"  Whilst  I,  in  this  crystal  retreat, 
This  dwelling  so  bright  and  so  pure, 
Am  far  more  blest  and  secure 
Than  a  king  on  his  gilded  seat — 
What  have  I  to  dread  or  to  fear? 
No  hand  can  touch  me  down  here — 
Through  the  amber  walls  of  my  beautiful  home, 
I  can  see  every  foe  who  may  dare  to  come, 
And  swift  as  a  thought,  I  can  softly  glide 
Through  my  palace  halls  in  this  sparkling  tide, 
And  safe  in  some  pebbly  chamber  stay 
'Til  the  foe  and  the  peril  have  passed  away. 


96  LITTLE  TROUT'S  SOLILOQUY. 


VI. 

"  My  form  is  graceful,  my  robe  is  fine ; 
My  food  most  dainty;  my  bed  most  bright; 
My  days  glide  away  in  a  dream  of  delight ; 
I  am  safe  in  the  storm,  as  when  sunbeams  shine; 
Oh,  who  leads  a  life  so  merry  as  mine?" 

VII. 

Just  then,  on  the  surface  of  that  clear  brook, 
Came  sporting  along  a  bright-winged  fly, 
And  the  boaster  caught  it  eagerly — 
Alas,  it  concealed  the  fatal  hook ! 
And  the  little  trout  learned,  as  many  have  done, 
That  not  a  creature  beneath  the  sun 
Hath  a  lot  so  bright,  or  a  dwelling  so  fair, 
But  the  Spirit  of  Evil  may  hover  there. 


THOUGHTS    IN  A   FOREST. 

HERE  is,  indeed,  a  sweet  and  sacred  slirine, 

Whereon  to  offer  up  the  soul's  pure  thoughts 

To  the  Unseen,  yet  Ever-Present  God  ! 

Here  is  a  temple  worthy  to  resound 

With  ceaseless  echoes  of  his  Mighty  name. 

What  stately  tabernacle,  planned  by  man 

In  his  most  cunning  hour,  can  vie  with  this? 

Behold  how  beautiful !     These  towering  trees, 

Grand  pillars  of  the  structure,  rise  to  meet 

The  azure  arch  above.     Yon  glorious  dome 

Is  lighted  by  a  never  failing  lamp 

Whose  ray  gives  life  and  joy.     Yon  fleecy  clouds 

Fresco    their  azure  field  with  shapes  more  fair 

Than  earth-born  artist  ever  dreamed  or  wrought. 

Pictures  of  living  loveliness  adorn 

This  sacred  temple's  far  extending  walls. 

The  shimmering  light  that  steals  thro'  waving  boughs 

Is  softer,  sweeter  than  those  varied  tints 

Which  steal  thro'  casements  stained  with  rainbow  dyes. 

Each  breeze  that  floats  adown  these  columned  aisles, 

Wafts  balmiest  incense  on  its  viewless  wings. 

And,  hark — the  music  of  the  unseen  choir ! 

How  sweet  the  varied  notes !     Aye,  sweeter,  far. 

7 


98  T  II 0  U  GETS  IN  A  FORES  T. 


Than  e'en  the  deep-mouthed  organ's  solemn  peal. 
Hark  yet  again — the  tuneful  chime  of  waves ; 
The  prayerful  tone  of  low-voiced  whispering  winds ; 
The  tender  murmur  of  the  quivering  leaves : 
And,  over  all,  the  notes  of  happy  birds, 
Whose  morning  orisons  are  offered  up 
In  hymns  of  ecstacy. 

Yes,  this  in  truth 

Is  the  heart's  chosen  place  of  prayer  and  praise. 
Here  thought  becomes  Religion — here  the  soul 
Feels  the  near  Presence  of  the  Living  God, 
And  bows  in  adoration,  lowly  down, 
Before  the  visible  wonders  of  his  power. 


THE    CHILD-POET. 


I. 

HE  steals  to  the  window,  as  evening  draws  nigh 
And  wistfully  turns  a  fond  gaze  to  the  sky — 
Its  vastness,  and  beauty,  and  mystery  seem 
To  fold  his  young  spirit  in  Ecstacy's  dream. 

II. 

Every  soft  floating  cloud,  every  rich  sunset  hue, 
Every  star,  peeping  timidly  out  from  the  blue, 
Calls  up  a  new  flush  of  delight  to  his  cheek, 
And  wakens  sensations  his  lips  cannot  speak. 

III. 

Rapt     and  moveless  he  stands,  with  soft  eyes  turned  above , 
And  fair,  childish  face  full  of  reverent  love, 
While  his  low  murmured  words,  as  they  float  on  the  air, 
Have  the  "  music  of  song  and  the  fervor  of  prayer." 

IV. 

He  tells  not  his  fancies— not  even  to  me — 

Yet,  by  many,  an  eloquent  token,  I  see 

That  heaven-born  Thought  cometh  down  in  that  hour 

To  expand  his  young  soul,  as  the  dew  doth  a  flower. 


]  00  T  H  E    C  H  I  L  D  -  P  0  E  T 


V. 

Ay,  the  glow  on  his  cheek,  and  the  light  in  his  eye, 
The  accent  subdued,  and  the  tremulous  sigh 
All  tell  of  emotions  too  deep  for  his  years, 
All  waken  sweet  hopes  that  are  born  amid  fears. 

VI. 

My  beautiful  dreamer !     My  gifted  young  child — 
Only  five  fleeting  summers  upon  him  have  smiled, 
And,  already  hath  Poesy  over  him  thrown 
The  spell  of  deep  magic  that  makes  him  her  own. 

VII. 

Already  he  turns  from  the  sports  of  his  age 
To  ponder  alone  o'er  some  'wildering  page ; 
Already  his  mind,  like  a  swift -pinioned  dove, 
Soars  up  on  high  thoughts  to  pure  regions  above. 

Till. 

Already  he  worships,  in  star-beam  and  flower, 
In  evening's  calm  hush,  in  the  tempest's  wild  power, 
That  Spirit  of  Beauty  which  fills  the  wide  earth, 
And  is  type  of  the  Being  who  called  it  to  birth. 

IX. 

With  tremulous  feelings,  half  pain  and  half  joy, 
I  note  the  bright  traits  of  my  star-gazing  boy ; 


THE  CHILD-POET.  101 


And  muse  on  the  duty,  so  solemnly  mine, 
To  guard  and  to  cherish  a  nature  so  fine. 

X. 

That  sensitive  heart,  if  directed  aright, 
Will  thrill  to  most  exquisite  strains  of  delight  ; 
But  should  Error  mistune  it,  alas,  then  I  know 
How  its  fine  chords  would  echo  the  wild  notes  of  wo ! 

XI. 

So,  oft,  in  the  deep  hush  of  midnight  I  pray 
That  Heaven  may  shed  its  pure  light  on  my  way, 
Ami  lend  me  the  wisdom,  the  patience,  the  power 
To  nurture  aright  this  most  promising  flower. 

XII. 

Love's  tear-drops  and  smiles,  like  the  rain  and  the  sun, 
Have  fostered  the  bud  since  its  being  begun ; 
Still  each  thought  is  a  hope,  and  each  hope  is  a  prayer 
That  its  blossoming  hour  may  be  gloriously  fair. 


BUNKER   HILL. 


I. 

No  murmur  thrilled  the  slumberous  air  • 

No  voice  disturbed  the  night ; — 
Silence  sat  throned,  majestic  there, 

On  Freedom's  sacred  height. 
Yet  busy  hands  were  toiling  fast, 

And  anxious  hearts  beat  high, 
And  stealthy  forms  went  hurrying  past 

Beneath  the  star-lit  sky. 
Noiseless  their  mystic  work  went  on 

Through  many  a  long  dark  hour ; — 
No  toiler  paused  for  food  or  rest — 
None  quailed  or  sank — each  patriot  breast 

Throbbed  with  a  Hero's  power. 
Ah,  Liberty !  in  every  clime 
Thou  lurest  still  to  deeds  sublime ! 

n. 

The  morning's  tell-tale  beam, 

Flashing  o'er  hill  and  stream, 

To  many  a  wondering  eye  revealed 

What  Night,  with  shadowy  veil,  concealed- 


BUNKER  HILL.  103 


Had  Sorcerer's  spell,  since  eventide, 

Upreared  the  lofty  mound, 
That  frowning  now  in  strength  and  pride, 

Stood  guarding  Freedom's  ground? 
So  secretly  the  work  begun, 
So  silently  the  task  was  done, 
That  hostile  fleets  and  armies  near, 
And  sentry  foes  with  watchful  ear, 
Had  caught  no  sound  whose  voice  might  tell 
The  secret  Darkness  kept  so  well. 

III. 

And  they — the  men  who  reared  that  mound, 
Beside  it  took  their  vantage  ground, 
Silent  and  sternly  brave. 
One  feeling  nerved  each  heart  and  hand ; 
One  deep  resolve — to  free  their  land, 
Or  make  its  soil  their  grave. 
Unskilled  in  War — untaught  to  fight — 
Unused  to  Battle's  "fierce  delight"— 
They  sought  not,  'til  the  contest  hour, 
To  show  their  foes  one  sign  of  power. 
No  burnished  armor  glittered  there  ; 
No  banners  wooed  the  morning  air ; 
No  trumpet-summons  floated  round 
To  cheer  with  soul-inspiring  soundj 


104  BUNKER    HILL. 


No  eloquent  chief  spake  loud  and  long, 
To  nerve  the  weak  and  thrill  the  strong ; 
No  pealing  war-cry  rose  on  high, 
Luring  rapt  Fancy  to  the  sky, 
And  making  it  seem  sweet  to  die. 
But  all  was  hushed  to  stern  repose — 
Hushed  to  the  boding  calm  that  shows 
A  gathering  storm — Such  stillness  lies 
On  Nature's  breast,  ere  tempests  rise. 

IV. 

From  her  deep  slumber  Echo  woke, 
When  signal-guns  their  mandate  spoke. 
Then  England's  troops,  in  full  array, 
Came  rushing  forward  to  the  fray ; 
Then, flushed  with  haughty  power  and  pride, 
They  hastened  up  that  green  hill  side, 
Trusting  full  quickly  to  subdue 
The  hopes  of  that  poor  "  rebel  crew," 
Who  dared,  almost  unarmed,  to  stand 
Before  the  might  of  Briton's  band. 

V. 

"  Thrice  is  he  armed,"  the  poet  said, 
"Who  hath  his  quarrel  just — " 
This  was  the  patriot's  trust ; 


BUNKER   HILL.  105 


This  holy  sense  of  right 
Was  now  his  guiding  light : 
It  cheered  his  soul,  it  nerved  his  arm, 
And,  like  a  saintly  word  or  charm, 
Still  kept  at  bay  dark  powers  of  harm. 
'Twas  better  than  the  wondrous  shield 
Achilles  wore  in  olden  time — 
Each  breast  that  bore  it  to  the  field 
Seemed  guarded  by  a  spell  divine. 

VI. 

The  fray  began — That  yoeman  band 
Who  ne'er  before  hurled  Battle's  brand, 
So  bravely  now  maintained  the  fight, 
They  crowned  with  glory  that  green  height. 
No  pen  unskilled  may  dare  to  tell 
What  deeds  of  valor  there  befell ; 
But  poet's  song,  and  History's  page 
Shall  make  them  famed  in  future  age. 
The  fray  went  on — from  hill  to  hill 
Pealed  the  dread  voice  of  Carnage  still — 

O 

And,  hark !  Amid  the  mingled  flow 
Of  shout  and  groan  and  cannon's  roar, 
There  softly  steals  o'er  sea  and  shore, 
A  wilder,    deeper  note  of  woe — 
It  tells  of  some  great  chief  laid  low. 


106  BUNKER    HILL. 


Yes — there,  ere  half  his  task  was  done, 
Fell  the  young  Nation's  honored  son ; 
WARREN  the  good,  the  true,  the  brave- 
God's  blessing  on  his  martyr-grave ! 

VII. 

A  moment's  hush  was  in  the  air; 
It  seemed  that  angels  hovering  there 
Bent  in  mute  sorrow  from  the  sky, 
To  see  so  true  a  patriot  die. 
It  seemed  that  even  blood-stained  War 
Paused,  in  his  cloud-enveloped  car, 
And  held  his  fiery  breath  awhile 
To  watch  that  hero's  parting  smile. 
Calm,  on  the  reddened  turf  he  lay, 
His  life-tide  ebbing  fast  away ; 
His  noble  soul,  unawed  by  Death, 
Still  murmuring  with  its  latest  breath, 
A  prayer  for  Liberty  ! 
Then,  from  that  noisy  field  of  war, 
Up  to  some  pure  and  peaceful  star 
His  spirit  winged  its  flight, 
One  moment,  'mid  that  stormy  fight, 
His  comrades  paused  in  mute  regret, 
To  wipe  the  cheeks  and  eye-lids  wet 
With  unaccustomed  rain. 


BUNKER    HILL.  10? 


Then  to  the  strife  again, 

With  hearts  new  nerved  by  pain. 

vin. 

Fain  would  the  muse,  too,  linger  here 

And  pause  for  one  regretful  tear ; 

But  SHOULD  such  drop  of  sorrow  fall 

Upon  the  glory  gilded  pall 

That  wraps  a  chief,  "  who  sinks  to  rest, 

"By  all  his  country's  wishes  blest?" 

We  weep  to  see  a  little  child, 

With  form  and  spirit  undefiled, 

Pass  in  its  soft  unfolding  bloom, 

Thro'  the  dark  portals  of  the  tomb. 

And  when  the  mighty  reaper  fells 

That  "  fairest  flower  of  all  the  field"— 

A  maiden  wreathed  in  Beauty's  spells, 

Our  hearts  to  bitter  anguish  yield. 

We  sorrow  e'en  to  see  depart 

The  trembling,  time-worn  man,  whose  heart 

O'erwearied  with  Earth's  toil  and  strife, 

Pants  feebly  for  the  better  life. 

Such  tears  may  fall — ay,  let  them  flow, 

'Til  ebbs  the  bitter  tide  of  woe  ; — 

But  thou,  brave  chief — beloved  of  Fame ! 

No  tears  should  stain  thy  brilliant  name ; 

What  though  thy  life  was  brief  as  bright  ? 

It  did  not  set  in  sudden  night. 


108  BUNKER    HILL. 


But  left,  upon  the  clouds  of  War, 

A  glory  like  the  evening  star — 

A  light  that  guided  to  the  road 

Thou  wouldst,  thyself,  have  bravely  trod. 

Well  might'st  thou  calmly  yield  thy  breath, 

And  smile  serenely,  e'en  in  death ; 

For,  with  that  mystic  foresight  given 

To  those  who  near  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

Thou  saw'st,  methinks,  the  glorious  ending 

Of  the  great  work  that  day  begun  • 

Saw  Victory  thro'  the  clouds  descending; 

Saw  Freedom's  sacred  battles  won. — 

IX. 

Oh,  patriot  chief!  the  vision  blest 

That  like  a  tuneful  melody 

Soothed  thy  last  pang  to  peaceful  rest, 

Is  now  a  bright  reality. 

Far  o'er  Columbia's  hills  and  plains, 

Her  mighty  lakes  and  noble  streams, 

Her  peopled  towns  a,nd  cities,  reigns 

A  splendor,  like  the  light  of  dreams. 

On  sunny  hills  and  valleys  green, 

And  cultured  plains,  Peace  smiles  serene; 

While  Plenty,  thro'  the  circling  year, 

Sheds  golden  treasures  freely  here. 


BUNKER    HILL.  109 


Go,  traverse  all  Earth's  varied  round, 
A  lovelier  land  shall  not  be  found. 

X. 

And  here,  in  happy  homes  enshrined, 
Lives  sweet  remembrance  of  the  brave 
Now  gone  to  rest— the  men  who  gave, 
In  the  dread  hours  of  gloom  and  pain, 
When  War's  fierce  fires  scorched  all  the  plain- 
Freely  as  Summer  cloud  its  rain — 
Their  heart's  rich  current  to  secure 
This  harvest  time  of  blessings  pure : 
Yes,  then — in  peril,  care  and  toil, 
They  planted  here,  in  genial  soil, 
The  precious  germ  whose  fruit  we  reap 
While  they,  the  honored  toilers,  sleep. 

Well  may  we  fondly,  proudly  keep 

A  record  of  their  noble  deeds ! 

Well,  cherish  every  glorious  name, 

And  give  it  to  the  voice  of  Fame! 

Well  may  we  let  sweet  Memory  twine 

Wreaths  for  each  hero's  funeral  shrine  ; 

And  bid  her,  like  a  pilgrim  bent 

On  purest,  holiest  intent, 

Wander  afar,  to  hallow  still 

Each  battle-plain,  each  fortress-hill, 


HO  BUNKER    HILL. 


"Where  martyrs  perished  to  fulfill 
Their  destiny  sublime ! 

XI. 

Well  may  a  grateful  people  rear 
Proud  faues,  like  this,  uptowering  here ! 
Marking  the  spot  where  brave  men  fought, 
The  sacred  spot  where  heroes  fell, 
Long  shall  it  waken  glowing  thought, 
Long,  eloquently  tell 
A  tale  that  bids  the  bosom  swell. 
Time's  mighty  tide  shall  ebb  and  flow — 
The  hoary  Ages  come  and  go, 
But  the  great  deeds  recorded  here 
Shall  live,  thro'  many  a  changeful  year. 
In  future  days  from  far-off  lands, 
Shall  come  full  often  pilgrim-bands, 
And,  'neath  this  monumental  tower 
Pausing  to  muse  on  by-gone  hour, 
Their  hearts  will  reverent  homage  pay 
To  the  brave  spirits  passed  away. 
Here,  too,  Columbia's  sons  shall  come, 
From  lingering  voyage,  or  far-off  home, 
And,  breathing  this  inspiring  air, 
And  gazing  round  on  scene  so  fair, 
They'll  murmur  holiest  vow  and  prayer — 


BUNKER   11ILL.  Ill 


A  vow  to  keep,  undiinm'd,  unstained, 
The  heritage  their  fathers  gained ; 
A  prayer  that  circling  years  may  see 
The  radiant  sun  of  Liberty 
Still  cloudless  shine,  as  on  that  morn 
When  first  its  glorious  smile  was  born. 


JOHN    QUINCT    ADAMS. 


I. 

IN  the  scenes  where  his  labors  began, 

Where  the  star  of  his  glory  arose, 
'Mid  the  gifted,  the  great,  and  the  good  of  his  land 

The  patriot  sank  to  repose. 

II. 

He  fell  on  the  field  of  his  fame, 

Like  a  chief  when  the  battle  is  won; 
Like  a  martyr,  who  lingered  his  faith  to  proclaim; 

Or  a  saint  when  his  mission  is  done. 

III. 

It  was  well, — it  was  glorious — thus, 
For  the  time-honored  statesman  to  die; 

For  the  halls  which  oft  rang  to  his  eloquent  words 
To  echo  his  last  gentle  sigh. 

IV. 

It  was  well  for  the  wise  and  the  great, 

The  mighty  in  station  and  power, 
To  linger  around,  and  thus  reverently  wait 

The  Patriarch's  sun-setting  hour. 


J  OliN    Q.    ADAMS.  113 


V. 

That  hour  was  as  calmly  serene 

As  the  close  of  a  fair  summer  dayj 
For  the  mind  that  thro'  life  so  unclouded  had  been, 

Shone  brightly  while  passing  away. 

VI. 
Pie  died  as  he  lived — the  pure  lips, 

So  instructive  in  years  that  were  past, 
Still  true  to  the  spirit  Time  could  not  eclipse, 

Spake  wisely  and  well  to  the  last. 

VII. 
He  had  lived,  by  his  country  revered, 

As  the  wisest  and  best  of  his  age ; 
He  died,  by  that  country  regretted  and  mourned 

As  a  Statesman,  a  scholar,  a  sage. 

VIII. 
When  the  nation's  bereavement  was  known, 

Life's  busiest  murmurs  were  stayed — 
In  far-distant  hamlet,  in  village  and  town 

The  symbols  of  woe  were  displayed. 

IX. 
'Round  dwelling  and  temple  and  tower 

The  sables  of  sorrow  were  wreathed ; 

8 


114  JOHN    Q.    ADAMS. 


And,  softly,  in  dwelling  and  temple  and  tower, 
Griefs  eloquent  anthems  were  breathed. 

X. 

When  his  relics  were  borne  to  the  tomb, 

A  multitude  gathered  around — 
Old  Age  in  its  weakness,  and  Youth  in  its  bloom 

All  pressed  to  that  hallowed  ground. 

XI. 

And  all  by  one  feeling  were  swayed, — 
All,  hushed  in  mute  reverence  stood, 

As  the  last  solemn  tribute  of  honor  was  paid  . 
To  the  dust  of  the  wise  and  the  good. 

XII. 
Now,  silent  he  sleeps  in  the  grave, 

Yet  his  teachings  our  homage  command, 
And  still,  like  a  beacon  that  guides  o'er  the  wave 

His  memory  shines  in  the  land. 


THE     LOVERS'    HOCK. 


["  La  Pena  de  los  Emamorados  (the  Rock  of  the  Lovers,)  received 
its  name  from  a  tragical  incident  in  Moorish  history.  A  Christ 
ian  captive  succeeded' in  inspiring  the  daughter  of  his  captor,  a 
wealthy  Mussulman  of  Granada,  with  a  passion  for  himself.  The 
two  lovers,  after  some  time,  fearful  of  detection,  determined  to 
make  their  escape  into  the  Spanish  territory.  Before  they  could 
effect  their  purpose,  however,  they  were  hotly  pursued  by  the  dam 
sel's  father  at  the  head  of  a  party  of  Moorish  horsemen,  and  over 
taken  near  a  precipice.  The  unfortunate  fugitives,  who  had  scram 
bled  to  the  summit  of  the  rocks,  finding  all  further  escape  imprac 
ticable,  after  tenderly  embracing  each  other,  threw  themselves 
headlong  from  the  dizzy  height,  prefering  this  dreadful  death  to 
falling  into  the  hands  of  their  vindictive  pursuers."] 


I. 
WITHIN  a  Moorish  castle 

Young  Roderigo  lies, 
Pining  in  lonely  bondage 

For  his  fair  Castilian  skies. 
How  wearily,  how  mournfully 

The  slow  hours  roll  away  ! 
At  morn  he  prayeth  for  the  night — 

At  eve  he  sighs  for  day. 

II. 

He  knows  the  flower  of  chivalry, 
The  noble  youth  of  Spain, 


116  THE    LOVERS'  ROCK. 


Are  battling  with  their  foemen 
On  many  a  distant  plain. 

His  thoughts  are  ever  with  them — 
His  brave  heart  yearns  to  be 

Foremost  ainid  that  phalanx 
Of  valiant  men,  and  free. 

III. 

Oh,  better  to  be  trampled 

By  foot  of  Moorish  slave ! 
Ay  !  better  to  be  lying 

Within  a  warrior's  grave, 
Than  thus  to  live  and  languish 

In  fetters  dark  and  vile — 
Uncheered  by  Heaven's  sunshine — 

Unblessed  by  Freedom's  smile ! 

IV. 

The  Spring  days  come  and  vanish ; 

The  Summer  roses  blow — 
Yet  naught  of  all  their  sweetness 

Can  the  weary  captive  know ; 
Until  a  star  of  beauty — 

Love's  star,  of  magic  ray, 
Rises  to  gild  his  prison 

With  light  more  fair  than  day 


THE    LOVERS'    ROC  K.  117 


V. 

The  Moorish  chieftain's  daughter, 

Young  Zara — loveliest  maid ! 
Hath  on  Affection's  altar 

A  votive  garland  laid. 
She  saw  the  Christian  warrior; 

She  loosed  his  heavy  chain, 
Then  bound  in  silken  fetters, 

His  willing  heart  again. 

VI. 

Now,  oft  they  meet  at  midnight, 

In  her  father's  garden  bowers — 
Meet,  on  the  brink  of  danger, 

While  fly  the  golden  hours ; 
Sweet  blossoms  breathe  around  them; 

Soft  star-beams  smile  above; 
While  murmuring  fountains  echo 

Their  souls  glad  hymn  of  Love. 

VII. 
Oh,  season  of  enchantment ! 

Spring  time  of  youthful  hearts, 
When  Nature  seems  to  sanction 

The  bliss  that  Love  imparts. 
Life  were  one  dream  of  beauty 

Could  such  fond  hours  remain  ! 


118  THE    LOVERS'    ROCK. 


But  fast  as  falling  tides  they  ebb, 
And  ne'er  flow  back  again. 

Till. 
Young  Zara's  trusted  hand-maid 

Hath  whispered  to  her  sire, 
And,  in  his  bosom,  lighted 

Suspicion's  baleful  fire. 
When  next  they  meet  at  midnight, 

Oh,  fond  and  hapless  pair  ! 
Their  bower  is  still  an  Eden, 

But  the  Serpent  lurketh  there. 

IX. 

A  fierce,  hot  breath  of  vengeance 

Is  mingled  with  the  sigh 
That  pure  and  dewy  blossoms 

Send  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
They  feel  that  Evil  presence — 

One  whispered  word  they  say  ; 
Then  clasp  their  hands  in  firm  resolve, 

And  noiseless  glide  away. 

X. 

An  armed  baud  pursues  them — 
Fast  thro'  the  gloom  of  night 

Loud,  trampling  footsteps  echo ; 
And  Zara  sinks  with  fright. 


THE    LOVERS'    ROCK.  119 


But  the  youth's  free  heart,  exulting 
In  manly  strength  and  pride, 

Could  dare  a  host  of  demons 
For  the  trembler  at  his  side. 

XI. 
He  whispers  words  of  fondness  ; 

He  cheers  her  more  and  more, 
By  picturing  blissful  morrows 

When  this  wild  night  is  o'er. 
Yet,  still  she  droops  and  falters — 

He  clasps  her  to  his  breast, 
And  thus  speeds  on  from  peril, 

O'erburthened,  yet — how  blest  ! 

XII. 

Oh,  Love, — young  Love  is  mighty  ! 

And  Zara's  form  is  light; 
Her  heart,  so  near  him  beating, 

Seems  to  aid  the  captive's  flight. 
But,  alas — the  way  is  weary, 

And  perchance,  the  listless  hours 
Passed  in  that  noisome  dungeon, 

Have  wasted  manhood's  powers. 

XIII. 

Roderigo's  footstep  falters, 

His  heart  throbs  wild  and  fast ; 


THE    L  OVERS'    ROCK. 


His  foes  come  near,  and  nearer — 

Oh,  must  he  sink  at  last  ? 
Before  him  towers  a  mountain — 

Its  stern  and  rocky  brow 
'Wakens  a  hope  of  refuge, 

But — can  he  climb  it  now  ? 

XIV. 
He  whispers  to  the  maiden — 

She  lifts  her  drooping  head, 
As,  hoarsely,  on  the  morning  air, 

King  out  these  accents  dread — 
"  I  charge  ye,  kill  the  maid  alone ! 

"  The  Christian  take  alive, 
"  That  he  may  feel  the  tortures 
"  My  vengeance  shall  contrive." 

XV. 

These  words  have  winged  their  footsteps 

Together,  now  they  go, 
Up,  bravely,  to  the  summit — 

Their  foes  still  far  below. 
Their  trembling  forms  are  weary, 

Yet  their  souls  are  strong  with  love ; 
The  vale  yawns  black  beneath  them, 

Yet  Heaven  smiles  bright  above. 


T  II  E    L  0  V  E  R  S  '    R  O  C  K.  121 


XVI. 

They  look  to  that  calm  Heaveii — 

They  kneel  one  moment  there, 
To  offer  on  that  rocky  shrine, 

The  incense-breath  of  prayer. 
One  fond  embrace  is  given ; 

One  brief  farewell  is  said; 
Then  down  they  sink  together, 

On  a  flinty  bridal  bed. 

XVII. 
The  startled  echoes,  'wakened 

By  that  wild  despairing  leap, 
Fly  upward,  loudly  shrieking, 

From  caverns  dark  and  deep. 
A  wail  of  human  sorrow 

Is  mingled  with  their  cry — 
Remorse  hath  touched  a  parent's  heart, 

Remorse  that  ne'er  can  die. 

XVIII. 
Now  evermore  that  mountain, 

With  its  frowning  rock  above, 
Is  hallowed  by  the  story 

Of  the  Moorish  maiden's  love. 
There  pious  travelers  offer 

Petitions  as  they  go, 


122  THE   LOVERS'   ROCK 


For  the  two  unburied  corses 
Mouldering  far  down  below. 

XIX. 

What  tho'  they  sleep  unhonored 

By  solemn  funeral  rite  ? 
What  tho'  their  couch  is  gloomy — 

Their  chamber  dark  as  night  ? 
Yet  their  dreams  niethinks  are  peaceful, 

Their  waking  griefs  are  o'er, 
And  their  loving  spirits  wander 

Where  nought  can  harm  them  more. 


THE    BROOK. 


I. 
A  MERRY  little  mountain  brook 

Went  dancing  on  its  way, 
And  as  it  leaped  from  stone  to  stone, 

It  sang  a  tuneful  lay — 
A  lay,  that  to  each  listener's  heart 

Was  sweet  as  love's  low  sigh, 
And  cheering  as  the  song  of  birds 

When  Morn  laughs  o'er  the  sky. 

II. 
Xo  heart  could  long  resist  the  power 

Of  that  melodious  strain — 
It  hushed  the  fretful  voice  of  Care, 

And  soothed  the  throb  of  Pain. 
A  sunny  atmosphere  of  joy 

Seemed  round  that  brook  to  dwell ; 
All  things  that  came  a-ncar  it,  owned 

The  influence  of  the  spell. 

III. 

If  wild-flowers  drooped  'neath  burning  suns, 
Those  soft  waves  kiss'd  them  o'er, 


124  THE    BROOK. 


And  lo  !  tliey  rose  with  blooming  cheeks, 

More  lovely  than  before. 
If  birds  grew  weary  in  their  flight, 

They  need  but  dip  their  wing 
In  that  sweet  fount,  then  soon  again 

They'd  proudly  soar  and  sing. 

IV. 
If  little  children,  as  they  turned 

Upon  their  homeward  way, 
When  saddened  by  the  irksome  tasks 

Conned  o'er  at  school  that  day — 
But  sported  near  the  brook  awhile, 

Its  joy-awaking  powers 
Soon  made  them  happy  as  the  birds, 

And  blooming  as  the  flowers. 

V. 
If  world-worn  men,  with  spirits  bowed 

Beneath  a  weight  of  care, 
Came  from  the  busy  haunts  of  life 

To  muse  in  quiet  there — 
The  soothing  murmur  of  those  waves, 

Rippling  so  soft  and  low, 
Fell  on  their  sense  like  some  loved  voice 

That  charmed  them  long  ago. 


THE    BRO  0  K.  125 


VI. 
And  blissful  dreams  of  early  hours 

Were  wakened  by  the  strain 
Until  the  listener's  furrowed  brow 

Grew  bright  and  glad  again. 
Oh,  magic  melody,  that  thus 

Could  Life's  lost  bloom  restore. 
And  lend  the  darkened  heart  of  Age 

The  glow  of  youth  once  more  ! 

VII. 

Thou  tuneful  little  stream  !  methinks, 

Within  thy  song  is  found, 
A  lesson  teaching  good  to  all 

Who  listen  to  the  sound. 
Thus  may  the  accents  of  a  heart 

To  kindly  instincts  true, 
Sustain  and  cheer  earth's  pilgrims  here, 

And  lend  them  strength  anew. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    SECRET. 

I. 

"  I  HATE  a  secret,"  sang  a  youthful  maid — 
"  A  precious,  precious  secret,  that  must  not  be  betrayed ! 
"  Lest  any  one  should  know 
"  How  it  sets  my  heart  a-glow, 
"  I'll  hide  it  as  do  misers  the  gold  they  dare  not  show." 

II. 

The  maiden  from  her  casement  looked  forth  upon  the  Night, 
Behold,  her  secret  written  in  characters  of  Light ! 
The  Moon,  with  fingers  pale, 
Traced  it  out  on  hill  and  dale, 
And  the  stars  in  mystic  glances  revealed  the  tender  tale. 

III. 

Then  lo !  at  early  morning,  when  walking  forth  alone, 
The  maiden  starts  and  trembles  at  every  wakening  tone — 
For  the  breeze  upon  the  hill, 
The  laughing  little  rill 

And  the  whispering  leaves  are  busy  with  her  cherish'd  secret  still 

t 

IV. 
How  should  the  minstrel  birds,  who  have  slept  the  whole  night 

through, 
Have  learned  that  sacred  secret — and  learned  to  tell  it  too  ? 


THE    MAIDEN'S    SECRET.  127 


But  list  the  babblers  now, 

How  they  shout,  from  every  bough, 

A  tale  that  calls  fresh  beauty  to  the  maiden's  cheek  and  brow 

V. 

And  not  alone  she  blushes — sweet  flowers  in  lowly  beds 

All  flush  to  deeper  blooming,  and  hang  their  pretty  heads; 

While  cloud  and  wave  and  sky, 

With  all  the  landscape  nigh, 

Have  caught,  by  some  sweet  sympathy,  that  rich  and  rosy  dye 

VI. 

She  dare  no  longer  linger  upon  her  homeward  way, 

For  spirits  of  enchantment  are  all  abroad  to  day ; 

And  there's  such  a  roguish  gleam 

In  the  sunlight's  dancing  beam, 

That  it  seems  a  merry  Elf  who  is  reading  her  sweet  dream. 

VII. 

Now,  maidens — pretty  maidens,  who  list  this  idle  song — 

If  ye  have  not  guess'd  the  secret — 't  will  be  told  to  ye  ere  long, 

One  mystic  word  alone, 

One  magic  look  or  tone 

Shall  make  the  charming  mystery  forever  more  your  own. 


THE    LIFE-KISS.* 

FAIR  rose  the  morn  upon  a  summer  sea  ; 
The  waves,  that   had  been  hushed  to  sleep  at  night 
Waked  by  the  warm  caresses  of  the  sun, 
Leaped  up  in  frolic  play,  as  children  do 
Meeting  their  mother's  smile.     The  light  wind  rose 
And  softly  kissed  the  bosom  of  the  Deep ; 
Then  with  a  buoyant  wing,  sped  gaily  on — 
A  tuneful,  unseen  Spirit  of  Delight, 
That  carolled  as  it  went  a  matin  song 
To  greet  the  new-born  Day. 

Upon  the  breast 

Of  that  bright  sea  a  stately  vessel  moved. 
With  snowy  sails  all  spread  to  catch  the  breeze, 
And  stately  form  serenely  gliding  on, 
She  looked  like  some  "  white  phantom  of  the  Wave," 
Some  fairy  vision  that  too  soon  would  fade 
From  the  charmed  gazer's  eye.     Her  silent  course 
O'er  that  unclouded  path,  seemed  like  the  soft 
And  tender  transit  of  a  happy  dream 
Thro'  an  untroubled-mind. — That  fresh,  fair  morn, 

*The  singular  circumstance  related  in  the  above  poem,  was  found 
in  a  biographical  sketch  of  the  early  life  of  Madame  Scarron,  after 
ward  the  celebrated  De  Maintenon. 


THE    LIFE -KISS.  129 


That  smiling  sea  and  proudly  floating  ship, 
Seemed  they  not  all  symbols  of  peace  and  joy  ? 
Yet  Sorrow,  pallid  guest,  who  ever  ooines 
Unbid  to  Life's  great  feast,  intruding  there, 
Darkened  the  rosy  hours.     A  lovely  child — 
Erewhile  a  blooming  type  of  bounding  life — 
Lay  mute  and  pale  upon  the  vessel's  deck, 
And  by  its  side  a  tearful  woman  knelt, 
To  look  her  last  upon  the  innocent  face 
Whose  sunny  smiles,  for  six  sweet  summers  past, 
Had  decked  her  path  with  flowers,  and  made  all  earth 
A  paradise  of  joy. 

A  graceful  garb, 

Such  as  in  life  she  wore,  attired  the  form 
Of  that  young  sleeper,  and  upon  her  brow 
The  mother's  trembling  hand  had  placed  a  crown 
Of  snow-white  mimic  flowers.     The  golden  curls, 
Clustering  around  each  little  dimpled  cheek, 
Flashed  back  the  sunbeam's  light;  and  a  calm  smile, 
The  spirit's  parting  legacy  of  love, 
Lingered,  like  some  pure  messenger  of  Peace, 
Upon  the  beauteous  lip. 

Around  that  fair 
And  delicate-featured  child  were  grouped  stern  men — 

Their  stalwart  forms  such  contrast  showing  there, 
9 


130  THE     LIFE-KISS. 


As  might  a  band  of  weather-beaten  oaks 
Towering  above  some  tender  flower  of  spring, 
Too  early  blighted  by  the  passing  storm. 
Ah!  many  a  cheek  that  morn  was  wet  with  dew 
Other  than  that  the  salt  sea  spray  doth  fling ! 
And  many  a  heart,  that  ne'er  had  quailed  before, 
Quailed  now  with  fear  and  dread — Yes,  bravest  men 
Shrank,  coward-like,  from  the  unwelcome  task 
Of  shrouding  that  sweet  image  of  young  life 
Beneath  the  Ocean's  wave. 

The  hour  had  come — 

The  dreaded,  parting  hour— yet  still,  in  tones 
Broken,  and  full  of  woe,  the  mother  prayed 
"Oh,  let  me  keep  her  yet  a  little  while! 
"  T  is  soon  to  thrust  my  peerless  treasure  down 
"  To  the  black  caves  of  ocean — soon  to  yield 
"  Those  dainty  lips  which  late  have  pressed  mine  own, 
"  To  foul-mouthed  finny  monsters  of  the  deep  ! 
"  So  lately  closed  those  love-illumined  eyes, 
' '  Their  lids  seem  trembling  now  to  ope  once  more ; 
"  And  see,  she  smileth  still !     Ye  would  not  give 
"  That  face  to  reptile  worms,  with  Heaven's  own  seal 
"  So  plainly  stamped  thereon  !     Back,  cruel  men  ! 
"  And  let  me  drink  the  beauty  of  that  smile 
"  'Til  something  of  its  own  pure  light  shall  pass 
'  Into  my  darkened  soul." 


THE    LIFE-KISS.  131 


As  thus  she  prayed, 

He  who  was  sovereign  of  that  floating  realm 
Motioned  his  seamen  to  their  saddening  task. 
The  mourner  marked  that  gesture  of  command, 
And,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  bowed  her  head 
To  clasp  the  silent  form,  and  hold  it  still 
In  passionate  embrace.     Fondly  she  pressed 
Her  burning  lips  to  those  so  icy  cold ; 
Firmly  she  held  that  pulseless  breast  to  one 
Throbbing  with  wildest  tumult  of  mad  life. 
Such  eloquent  woe  was  in  that  last,  long  kiss 
That  pitying  gazers  turned  aside  to  weep — 
Fearing  to  see  the  mystic  thread  of  life 
Break  in  the  mother's  heart,  the  while  she  bent 
O'er  her  departed  child.     But  what  is  this? 
Hath  the  wild  wail  Love  breathes  above  its  lost 
Miraculous  power  to  bid  the  dead  revive  ? 
Look  to  the  sleeper  now  !     Her  gentle  breast 
Heaves  with  a  languid  movement,  like  to  that 
Of  water-lilies,  when  the  rising  tide 
Slowly  begins  to  lift  their  pearly  leaves. 
The  golden  curls,  stirred  by  deluding  winds, 
Have  NOW  a  motion  that  no  longer  cheats 
The  gazer's  loving  eye.     What  magic  spell 
Hath  wrought  this  wondrous  change  ?     Did  Love's  fond  call 
Reach  the  young  spirit  in  its  heavenward  flight 


132  THE    LIFE-KISS. 


And  lure  it  back  to  earth  ?     Or  did  a  spark, 

Struck  from  the  deathless  flame  that  ever  burns 

On  the  pure  altar  of  a  mother's  heart, 

Relume  again  the  faded  fire  of  Life  ? 

Vainly  we  question — Even  unto  those 

Who  saw  that  sleeper  wake,  the  thrilling  scene 

Remained  a  mystery  still.     As  steals  the  flush 

Of  roseate  Morn  along  the  eastern  sky, 

So  stole  the  lovely  token  flower  of  health 

Back  to  that  fair  child's  cheek.     E*e  long  she  stood 

Restored  to  joyous  life — a  radiant  gem 

Plucked  from  the  Spoiler,  and  reset  once  more 

In  Love's  fair  diadem.     E'en  coldest  hearts 

Beat  fast  and  warm  to  see  that  fairy  child 

Flitting  again  in  gleeful  health  and  hope 

Around  that  ocean  home.     Think  then  what  joy 

O'erflowed  the  mother's  soul.     But  none  save  Him 

"Who  reads  all  hearts  may  dare  to  lift  the  veil 

Whose  sacred  folds  conceal  a  bliss  so  pure. 


PYGMALION. 


I. 

A  WILD,  sweet  dream — a  vision  strangely  bright, 

In  happiest  moment  stole 

O'er  the  young  Sculptor's  soul, 

Flooding  his  spirit-gaze  with  hues  of  light, 

And  lending  glimpses  of  those  forms  divine 

That,  robed  in  Heaven's  own  beauty,  changeless  shine. 

II. 

While  yet  his  fancy  glowed 

"With  that  celestial  beam, 

He  plied  the  chisel,  'til  its  tracery  showed 

Hints  of  his  Eden-dream. 

From  morn  'til  midnight  hour 

He  wrought  with  tireless  hand ; — 

If  Labor's  stern  command 
Could  bow  the  cold,  rude  block  to  mortal  power ; 
If  patient  toil  could  gain  the  meed  it  sought, 
Then  would  he  shadow  forth  his  heaven-born  thought- 
Then,  from  th'  unyielding  stone,  in  triumph  win 
The  hidden  form  of  loveliness,  that  in 
Its  flinty  heart  a  prisoner,  dwelt. — 
Oh,  Genius !  still  is  felt 
Thy  power  divine  !     Thou  hast  th'  Enchanter's  wand, 


134  PYGMALION. 


That  bid'st  all  lovely  shapes  before  us  stand. 
'Tis  thine  to  fashion  from  the  common  earth 
Bright  forms  that  wear  the  stamp  of  heavenly  birth ; 
And  thine,  from  every  humble  couch,  to  wake 
The  slumbering  Spirit  of  Beauty,  and  to  make 
Earth's  wonders  visible  to  the  world's  charm'd  eyes. 

III. 

At  length  the  toiler  saw,  with  glad  surprise, 
That  his  long  task  was  done, 
And  the  rich  guerdon  won — 
A  shape,  serenely  bright 
As  the  Greek's  Aphrodite, 
Before  him  smiling  stood — He  gazed, 
With  tear-dimm'd  eye  and  soul  amazed, 
On  the  sweet  vision  his  own  spell  had  raised. 

IV. 

The  faultless  limbs,  the  attitude  of  grace, 
Youth's  radiant  charm,  illuming  all  the  face, 
The  record  of  sweet  thought  that  seemed  to  glow 
On  the  pure  tablet  of  that  marble  brow, 
The  tender  smile  playing  upon  the  cheek, 
The  lip  just  parted,  as  in  act  to  speak, — 
All  met  the  'wildered  eye,  so  wondrous  fair, 
They  woke  a  fond  belief  that  life  was  there. 


PYGMALION.  135 


V. 

Vainly  the  gazer  turned  him  to  depart, 
For  strange  emotions  clustering  round  his  heart, 
Bade  him  still  lingering  look,  and  still  delay, 
To  turn  from  such  rare  loveliness  aAvay. 
Like  one  in  dreams,  who  strives,  yet  strives  in  vain 
To  loose  the  weight  of  an  invisible  chain, 
So  he,  a  captive  there  despite  his  will, 
Struggled  against  some  unseen  fetter  still. 
Soon  o'er  his  sense,  like  vivid  lightning-stroke, 
The  blinding  flash  of  truth  impetuous  broke — 
He  LOVED  the   statue  ! — loved  the  soulless  form 
No  mortal  skill  could  ever  wake  or  warm ! 
Oh  !  fatal  destiny  ! — until  that  hour, 
Ne'er  had  his  heart  bowed  to  Love's  conquering  power- 
Now  rushing  forth,  as  long-pent  waters  roll, 
Came  the  swift  tide,  o'erflooding  all  his  soul. 
In  passionate  hope  and  wild  desire,  he  knelt 
To  tell  the  pitying  gods  the  woe  he  felt, 
And  pray  each  bright  Divinity  above, 
Who  e'er  had  favoring  smiled  on  mortal  love, 
To  smile  on  his — and  lend  Life's  mystic  tide 
To  warm  the  cold,  pale  slumberer  at  his  side. 

VI. 

Daj^s  past — and  still  he  sought 
The  idol  of  his  thought, 


136  PYGMALIOX. 


To  breathe,  in  eloquent  strain, 

The  prayer  that  seemed  so  vain. 

Days  past — and  still  he  clung 

To  his  wild  hope — still,  with  fond  yearning,  hung 

Over  the  pale,  mute  form,  whose  veiled  eyes 

Could  give  no  soft  response  to  all  his  passionate  sighs. 

VII. 

'Twas  summer  eve — Sweet  Day  had  gone  to  rest; 
But  her  last  smile,  still  lingering  in  the  West, 
Flooded  the  world  with  splendor : 
This  light,  so  rich  yet  tender, 
Made  rudest  objects  fair, 
And  bade  the  beauteous  wear 
An  aspect  half  divine : 
Behold  !  those  beams  now  shine 
On  the  white  marble  Shape — Its  cheek  of  snow 
Catches  a  rosy  glow ! 

And  mark  its  half-veiled  eyes ! — those  tender  beams, 
Are  they  but  mockery  of  the  sun-set  gleams  ? 
Are  they  not  LIVING  rays,  sent  from  a  fount  within  ? 
Is't  madness  now,  or  sin, 
To  deem  that  snowy  breast 
Throbs  with  a  sweet  unrest  ? 
Oh,  miracle  most  blest ! 
The  fair  creation  lives !     Behold,  th'  uplifted  eyes 


PYGMALION.  137 


Turn,  with  a  soft  surprise, 

Their  loving  light  upon  the  'wildered  youth, 

Whoso  dream  of  heaven  is  now  a  thrilling  truth. 

v 

Oh  !  legend  of  old  time  ! 

Fable,  or  myth,  or  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 

Fain  would  the  poet's  heart 

Win,  from  thy  hidden  sense,  a  truth  sublime.— 

Ye  toiling  sons  of  Genius,  mark  the  tale ! 

If  mid  your  labors  in  the  field  of  Art, 

Despondency  assail; 

If  strength  and  courage  fail, 

Yield  not  to  black  despair, 

But  breathe  Faith's  earnest  prayer: — 

Still  ask,  still  hope,  still  pray, 

And  still  believe — Lo !  on  some  favored  day, 

In  answer  to  your  earnest,  trustful  thought, 

Again  the  olden  miracle  will  be  wrought, 

And  gracious  Heaven  the  priceless  boon  will  give 

That  bids  the  product  of  your  labor  live ! 


THE    MET-TA-WEE* 

• 

I. 

LONG  hours  we  had  journeyed  o'er  meadow  and  mountain : 

The  sunbeams  were  fervid,  the  way-side  was  drear; 
And  our  souls  felt  athirst  for  some  pure  sparkling  fountain 

Whose  wave  might  refresh,  and  whose  beauty  might  cheer. 
O'erwearied  and  faint,  in  the  twilight's  soft  splendor 

We  happily  chanced  a  lone  valley  to  see, 
Thro'  whose  tranquil  breast  like  a  thought  pure  and  tender, 

Flowed  tunefully  onward  the  bright  Mettawee. 

II. 
Oh,  never,  methinks,  a  more  beautiful  vision 

Appeared  to  the  eyes  of  the  weary  and  worn ! 
Twas  a  fairy  oasis — a  green  spot  Elysian, 

Like  those  that  mid  sands  of  the  desert  are  born, 
The  birds  hovering  o'er  it,  poised  long  on  light  pinions. 

Enamoured  their  forms  in  that  mirror  to  see ; 
And  winds,  stealing  out  of  their  mystic  dominions, 

Breathed  low  as  they  crept  by  the  calm  Mettawee. 

III. 

Cloud-figures,  angelic,  hung  over  its  bosom ; 
Tall  willows  like  lovers  bent  low  at  its  side ; 

*  This  pretty  Indian  name  is  given  to  a  beautiful  little  stream  that 
traces  its  devious  course  through  a  valley  in  the  northern  part  of 
the  state  of  New  York. 


THE    ME  T  -  T  A  -  W  E  E.  1 39 


'T  was  kissed  o'er  and  o'er  by  each  rosy-lipp'd  blossom 
That  leaned  in  mute  tenderness  down  to  its  tide. 

How  fondly  we  lingered  to  gaze  on  that  river 
To  quaff  its  pure  nectar — for  all  flowing  free ! 

How  weariness  fled, — and  how  Care's  fitful  fever 
Was  soothed  by  the  charms  of  the  bright  Mettawee  1 

IV. 

That  moment  so  dear,  and  that  scene  so  beguiling 

Come  back  oftentimes  to  my  memory  again — 
I  see  o'er  the  landscape  a  soft  sunset  smiling, 

I  see  the  green  hills  and  the  flower-vestured  plain. 
The  deep  azure  skj  and  the  first  star  of  even, 

Above  me  in  holiest  beauty  I  see, 
"While  lo !  as  I  gaze,  there's  another  pure  heaven 

Far  down  in  the  breast  of  the  bright  Mettawee. 

V. 

Time  speeds  on  his  pathway,  and  still  as  he's  flying, 

Our  joy-lighted  moments  he  shakes  from  his  glass, 
But  the  brightest  and  dearest  emit,  while  they're  dying, 

A  beam  that  illumines  the  rest  as  they  pass. 
These  sparks  of  enjoyment  are  Memory's  treasure 

She  hoards  them — she  keeps  them  from  dark  changes  free, 
Oh,  long  may  she  cherish  the  sweet  dream  of  pleasure 

We  dreamed  on  the  bank  of  the  bright  Mettawee ! 


"LIFE     IN    DEATH." 

I. 

I  SAW  an  old  and  withered  oak ; — 
Its  trunk  was  scathed  by  lightning's  stroke  ; 
Its  leafless  branches,  sere  and  bare, 
Stretched  darkly  in  the  summer  air, 
Like  human  arms  in  mute  despair. 
No  wild-bird  in  that  old  tree  sung ; 
No  twining  tendrils  round  it  clung; 
No  joyous  child  beneath  it  played ; 
No  whispering  lovers  wooed  its  shade. 
Bereft  of  beauty  life  and  bloom, 
It  seemed  abandoned  to  its  doom, 
The  doom  of  lone  and  sad  decay, 
With  nought  to  cheer  its  latest  day 
Or  sorrow  that  it  pass'd  away. 

n. 

Yet  'twas  not  so — one  little  flower, 
Bright  as  if  born  in  Beauty's  bower, 
Nestled,  those  rough  dark  roots  among, 
And  o'er  them  sweetest  perfume  flung. 
No  bud  that  ever  drank  the  dew 
Had  fairer  form,  or  lovelier  hue ; 
No  tropic  blossom,  rich  and  rare, 


"LIFE    IN   DEATH."  141 


Fostered  with  fondest  watch  and  care, 

Could  breathe  more  sweet,  or  smile  more  fair. 

A  touching  thing  it  was  to  see 

That  flow'ret  'neath  the  blighted  tree — 

One,  purest  type  of  life  and  bloom, 

And  one,  dark  symbol  of  the  tomb. 

III. 

While  Thought  still  brooded  o'er  this  theme, 
Another  sight  woke  sadder  dream — 
This  was  a  way-worn  man,  whose  head, 
Whitened  by  snows  that  Time  had  shed, 
Seemed  drooping  to  its  last  low  bed. 
His  eyes  were  dim  with  mist-like  tears — 
The  frosty  drops  of  wintry  years. 
His  form  was  bowed,  his  steps  were  slow ; 
His  broken  tones  were  faint  and  low, 
As  oft  he  spake  of  "  long  ago." 
No  bird  of  hope  sang  in  his  ear ; 
No  early  dream  came  back  to  cheer; 
No  gleam,  on  furrowed  brow  or  cheek 
Remained,  of  vanished  youth  to  speak. 
No  relic  of  Life's  summer  tide, 
No  remnant  of  its  strength  and  pride 
Lingered  about  that  aged  form ; — 
The  old  oak,  smitten  by  the  storm, 
Was  not  so  sad  a  wreck  as  he, 


142  "LIFE    IN    DEATH." 


Becalmed  thus,  on  Time's  shoreless  sea, 
Slow  drifting  to  Eternity  ! 

IV. 

Thus  sadly  musing,  I  beheld 
A  child,  fair  as  some  Fay  of  Eld, 
Bound  to  the  old  man's  side,  and  grasp 
His  withered  hand  with  loving  clasp. 
Then,  full  of  frolic,  life  and  glee, 
He  climbed  upon  that  tottering  knee, 
And  those  thin  locks  put  softly  by 
To  look  up  in  that  faded  eye ; 
Then,  smiling,  kissed  the  furrowed  cheek, 
And  seemed  soft  words  of  love  to  speak ; — 
Meanwhile  his  curls  of  golden  light 
Blent  with  those  threads  of  silvery  white, 
And  made  a  picture  strangely  bright. 

V. 

What  sudden  beauty  round  me  bloomed  ? 
What  new-born  light  my  soul  illumed  ? 
Bright,  and  more  bright  the  landscape  grew, 
As  Thought  assumed  a  happier  hue ! 
The  very  air  that  floated  near 
Breathed  music  tones  of  hope  and  cheer, 
And  seemed,  by  some  beguiling  spell, 
These  welcome  words  of  truth  to  tell — 
"  Life  is  not  dark  and  full  of  woe ; 


"LIFE    IN    DEATH."  143 


"  Life  cloth  not,  like  a  taper  go 

"  In  utter  darkness  out — ab,  no! 

"  Nature,  who  gives  the  wound,  doth  still 

"  Provide  a  balni  for  every  ill : 

"  Nature,  with  ready  hand  repairs 

"The  wrecks  she  makes — Each  creature  shares 

"  Her  loving  watch,  her  tender  cares — 

"  The  old  oak  falls  not,  'til  its  bower 

"  Is  birth-place  of  some  budding  flower; 

"  The  old  man  dies  not  'til  his  place 

"  Is  filled  by  some  young  form  of  grace, 

"  Some  vigorous,  bounding,  joyous  elf 

"Who  re-creates  his  former  self: 

"Thus  nought  is  lost  or  cast  away, 

"  For  bloom  springs  up  'mid  dark  decay, 

"  And  Death  becomes  Life's  natal  day !" 


ADMONITION. 

I. 
THERE  is  a  harp  whose  trembling  strings 

Are  tuned  to  such  a  thrilling  key, 
That  zephyrs  borne  on  lightest  wings 

Awake  its  plaintive  melody. 

II. 
Oft  in  the  hush  of  summer  eves, 

When  whispering  winds  scarce  woo  the  leaves, 
You  hear  that  harp's  melodious  sigh 

Breathing  a  soft  and  sad  reply, 
To  some  lone  Spirit  of  the  Air 

That  floats  on  viewless  pinions  there. 

III. 

Think,  if  this  gentle  harp  doth  tell 
Such  piteous  tale  in  summer  hours, 

How  wildly  must  its  music  swell 

To  stormy  winds,  when  Winter  lowers ! 

IV. 
The  human  heart,  once  touched  by  Pain — 

Once  tuned  to  Sorrow's  plaintive  key, 
Like  to  this  harp  of  airy  strain, 

Gives  forth  a  music,  wild  and  free — 


ADMONITION.  145 

Like  the  bruised  flower  it  scarce  can  bear 

The  soft  caress  of  summer  air. 
The  gentlest  words  that  round  it  float 

May  waken  some  regretful  note; 
E'en  merry  lays,  by  glad  lips  sung, 

Oft  jar  the  chords  too  finely  strung; 
While  Friendship's  voice  or  Love's  fond  smile. 

Arousing  memories  hushed  awhile, 
May  thrill  that  wounded  heart  again 

With  echoes  of  its  earlier  pain. 

V. 

Then  breathe  no  harsh  or  bitter  word 

Anear  this  trembling  instrument, 

Lest  its  fine  chords  be  rudely  rent — 
Think,  if  its  every  pulse  is  stirred 

To  mournful  music  by  the  touch 

Of  Love's  warm  breath ,; — oh,  think  how  mucl: 

Its  gentle  nature  must  endure, 

If  Anger  stern,  or  Hate  impure 

Breathe  their  discordant  blasts  around, 

To  wake  its  wild,  despairing  sound ! 


10 


A    THOUGHT. 

I. 

THE  rose  unveils  its  bosom  to  the  day, 
And  freely  pours  its  perfumed  life  away ; 
Lavish  of  sweets,  it  loads  each  passing  gale 
With  the  rich  tide  whose  founts  are  slow  to  fail 
Yet,  spite  of  all  it  gives,  the  floweret's  heart 
Still  keeps  a  portion  it  can  ne'er  impart ; 
Deep  amid  folded  leaves  that  sweetness  lies 
And,  lingering  there,  with  the  frail  blossom  dies. 

II. 

Thus  doth  the  dreaming  Bard  unveil  his  mind 
And  freely  give  its  treasures  to  his  kind ; 
Thus  richly  freight  each  passing  wave  of  Time 
With  tuneful  tribiites  from  a  fairy  clime ; 
Yet  still  he  gives  not  all — his  soul  retains 
Gems  brighter  far  than,  e'er  illum'd  his  strains ; 
Unuttered  music — thoughts  so  pure  and  high 
They  cannot  find  a  voice,  but  must  in  silence  die. 


GRAVES   BY   THE   SEA-SIDE. 

["Here  in  the  sand,  on  the  very  shore,  stand  two  headstones  side  by 
side.  Their  silence  tells  the  same  story  as  the  fretfulness  of  the 
rock  rent  waves  beyond."] 

I. 

HARK  to  those  moaning  waves ! 
Their  dirge-like  voices  rising,  swelling, 
Seem  ever  some  sad  story  telling — 
And  mark  those  two  pale  stones 
That,  ghost-like,  stand 
Upon  the  pebbly  strand ; 
Their  silence  well  accords 
With  Ocean's  solemn  words — 
"What  do  they  seem  to  say  ? 
What  is  the  burthen  of  that  mournful  lay 
The  billows  chant,  unceasing,  night  and  day  ? 
All  else  around, 
Both  sight  and  sound, 
Is  full  of  life  and  glee — 
The  sunbeams  laugh  from  out  a  smiling  sky ; 
The  sportive  breeze  sings  as  it  dances  by ; 
White  clouds  above,  and  white-sailed  ships  below, 
Gaily  upon  their  azure  pathway  go. 
Lightly  the  sea-gulls  soar,  on  buoyant  wing ; 
Merrily  the  home-bound  boatmen  shout  and  sing ; 


148  GRAVES    BY   THE    SEA-SIDE. 


"While  happy  children,  sporting  near  the  shore, 
Blend  silvery  laughter  with  old  Ocean's  roar. 

II. 

'Mid  all  these  types  of  joyous  life, 
Ever  the  waves,  in  ceaseless  strife, 
Ever  those  stones,  so  cold  and  still, 
Seem  whispering  to  the  heart  some  tale  of  ill. 
Who  may  the  slumbering  tenants  be 
Of  those  lone  graves  beside  the  sea  ? 
Thought,  lingering  near  the  spot, 
Questions,  yet  learneth  not ; 
It  asks  the  voiceless  stones — they  show 
No  record  of  the  mouldering  forms  below; 
It  asks  the  moaning  waves — they  rise  and  fall, 
And  sadly  answer,  yet  they  tell  not  all. 

III. 

Perchance  some  maiden,  fond  and  true, 
In  whose  young  heart  Love,  budding  new, 
Tinted  all  Earth  with  Heaven's  own  hue, 
Met,  in  her  grace  and  bloom, 
This  cold,  untimely  doom. 
Perchance  some  Bard,  in  being's  prime, 
Whose  thoughts  flowed  like  a  tuneful  rhyme, 
Whose  every  heart-beat  was  a  lay 
That  sang  the  dancing  hours  away, 


GRAVES    BY    THE   SEA. SIDE.  149 


Found  all  the  dreams  his  soul  held  dear 
Dissolve,  in  sudden  anguish,  here. 
Perchanco  some  Mariner,  returning 
From  distant  shores,  with  spirit  yearning 
To  clasp,  in  Home's  sweet  haven  of  rest, 
Forms  whose  remembered  smiles  had  blest, 
Like  beacon  lights,  his  stormy  way, 
Met,  in  the  place  of  promised  bliss, 
This  doom  of  sadness — even  this. 
Perchance  some  Scholar,  deeply  learned, 
Whose  soul  with  noble  ardor  burned, 
Whose  subtile  powers  of  thought  could  sound 
Eaith,  Air,  and  Ocean's  depths  profound, 
Encountered  here,  in  all  his  pride, 
A  problem  that  his  skill  defied — 
A  truth,  mysterious,  dark  and  stern, 
That  Man  still  vainly  seeks  to  learn. 

IV. 

Away  with  all  this  idle  dreaming! 
Long  as  yon  quiet  stars  are  beaming, 
Long  as  yon  restless  waters  flow, 
We  may  not  learn  who  lies  below. 
Then  leave  them  to  their  tranquil  sleep — 
Let  Earth  her  solemn  secret  keep. 
Yet,  stay ! — one  moment  more  we'll  dream 
Upon  this  wild,  yet  witching  theme — 


150          GRAVES    BY    THE    S  E  A  -  S  I  D  E. 


Is  not  our  life  like  you  dark  shore  ? 
There  Care's  rude  billows  chafe  and  roar ; 
There  saddest  memories  ever  stand 
Like  ghostly  stones  upon  the  strand, 
Solemnly  pointing  to  the  grave 
Of  joys  we  vainly  sought  to  save. 
Ah !  were  this  all — then  might  we  go 
From  these  dark  waves  in  hopeless  woe; 
But,  look  to  yon  horizon's  verge — 
How  sweetly,  o'er  the  angry  surge, 
Fair  Hesperus  smiles ! 
Oh,  Faith !  thou  art  that  evening  star 
Shining  o'er  Life's  wild  waves,  afar ! 
Thou  com'st,  with  soft  consoling  ray, 
To  smile  the  gathering  gloom  away ; 
Thou  risest,  when  Joy's  sun  is  set, 
To  soothe  the  spirit's  fond  regret; 
Thou  pointest  upward  to  a  sphere 
Where  Truth,  long  veiled  in  darkness  here, 
Shall  in  her  own  pure  radiance  glow, 
And  teach  us  all  we  yearn  to  know. 


MAKY    RUSSELL    MITFORD. 

WRITTEN    ON    HEARING    TIDINGS    OF    HER    I)  E  A.  T  II. 

I. 

YE  tireless  stars,  that  with  unwinking  eyes, 
Watch  near  the  radiant  portals  of  the  skies ; 
Ye  faithful  sentinels,  that  ever  wait, 
Unwearied  there,  at  Heaven's  celestial  gate, 
Have  ye  not  seen  a  spirit  wondrous  bright 
Pass  in,  of  late,  to  those  pure  realms  of  light  ? 

II. 

Such  one,  alas  !  has  vanished  from  this  Earth, 
And  dark-robed  Sorrow  sits  by  many  a  hearth  >- 
Oh,  eyes  of  Heaven,  you've  witnessed  niortel  woe 
Dimming  full  oft  the  light  of  eyes  below, 
But  never  shone  your  calm  and  solemn  ray 
On  grief  more  true  than  that  ye  view  to-day. 

III. 

O'er  stormy  seas,  like  evil  omened  birds, 
Darkly  careering,  came  the  unwelcome  words — 
Pale  lips  first  wailed  them  on  a  distant  shore, 
And  trembling  ones,  here  breathed  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
'Til  listening  Echo  caught  the  strain,  and  said, 
In  sad  response,  "  The  well-beloved  is  dead. 


152  MARY    II.    MIT  FORD. 


IV. 

If  Sorrow  rests  upon  this  alien  strand, 
How  is  it  in  the  lost  one's  native  land  ? 
That  "  Merrie  England,"  where  each  grove  and  gler 
Have  borrowed  light  and  beauty  from  her  pen  ? 
There,  where  each  leafy  nook  and  winding  lane 
Are  hallowed  by  the  memory  of  her  strain  ? 

V. 

Yes,  there  her  sunny  spirit  lent  a  beam 
Of  its  own  light  to  gild  the  lowliest  theme  : 
There  oft  her  sportive  fancy  wove  a  spell 
Of  soft  enchantment  'round  each  sylvan  dell ; 
And  there,  like  poet's  song  with  magic  rife, 
Her  words  awak'd  e'en  soulless  things  to  life. 

VI. 

The  simplest  flower  she  named  upon  her  page, 
Will  live  to  breathe  sweet  thanks  in  future  age ; 
The  rural  homes  and  haunts  whose  charms  she  drew 
Will  keep  her  memory  ever  bright  and  new ; 
While  hearts  that  love  her  strains  will  con  them  o'er, 
And  grow  ennobled  by  the  genial  lore. 

VII. 

Her  life's  sweet  task  was  still  to  bless  and  cheer — 
Angelic  mission,  well  accomplished  here  ! 


A  R  Y    R.    M  I  T  F  0  R  D.  153 


Now,  in  the  fullness  of  its  years  and  fame, 
Her  spirit  soars,  its  pure  reward  to  claim — 
Oh,  watchful  star-beams,  lend  your  holiest  ray, 
To  guide  that  spirit  on  its  heavenward  way. 


"OVER    THE   BROOK." 

*  ARUSTICBALLAD. 

I. 

ONE  fair  sabbath  morn,  in  the  sweet  month  of  May — 
My  thoughts  all  in  tune  with  the  beautiful  day — 
I  dressed  me  with  care,  and  a  ramble  I  took 
To  a  snug  little  cottage  just  over  the  brook. 

II. 

Oh !  sweet  were  the  roses  that  bloomed  by  the  door ! 
And  fragrant  the  vine-blossoms,  clambering  o'er; 
And  bright  looked  that  cot  as  some  festival  hall, 
Yet  my  Bessie  was  brighter  and  sweeter  than  all. 

III. 

She  blushed  and  looked  down — then  she  gave  a  low  sigh, 
Yet  I  saw  not  regret  nor  reproof  in  her  eye, 
So  I  sat  by  her  side,  and  her  small  hand  I  took, 
While  I  asked  her  to  walk  with  me  over  the  brook. 

IV. 

How  sang  the  glad  birds  and  how  smiled  the  bright  sun. 
As  rejoicing  with  me  o'er  the  prize  I  had  won  ! 
Shall  I  ever  forget  that  dear  moment  ? — Ah,  no  ! 
Its  bliss  lingers  yet,  tho'  it  passed  long  ago. 


"OVER   THE   BROOK.  155 


V. 

3Iy  Bessie  was  mute,  yet  by  many  a  sign, 
I  knew  that  her  heart  beat  responsive  to 
For  we  saw,  near  the  church,  the  good  priest  with  his  book, 
And  the  people  assembling  just  over  the  brook. 

VI. 

We  came  to  the  bridge — 'twas  a  plank — nothing  more — 
Thrown  carelessly  over  from  this  to  that  shore  : 
Too  narrow  appeared  the  frail  footing  for  two, 
So  close  to  my  bosom  dear  Bessie  I  drew. 

VII. 

The  stream  seemed  to  laugh  as  it  danced  on  its  way, 
And  to  babble  the  secret  of  that  happy  day 
When  first  in  my  arms,  while  with  gladness  they  shook, 
I  bore  the  shy  maiden,  thus,  over  the  brook. 

VIII. 

We  reached  the  church  door,  as  a  sweet  bridal  strain, 
Pealed  merrily  out,  over  hill-side  and  plain — 
Those  bells  had  a  voice  that,  to  me,  plainly  said, 
''Thy  bride  is  the  fairest  that  ever  was  wed." 

IX. 

When  the  vows  were  all  spoken — the  kind  pastor  gone — 
The  good  wishes  breathed,  and  the  festival  done — 


150 


"OVER  THE  BROOK-" 


In  the  soft  hush  of  evening,  sweet  Bessie  I  took 
To  my  own  little  cottage,  just  over  the  brook. 


X. 


While  stars  in  their  beauty  looked  forth  on  the  Night 
And  smilingly  sanctioned  the  Morn's  solemn  rite, 
Two  hearts  filled  with  love,  as  twin  flow'retswith  dew, 
Sent  upward  sweet  offerings  of  thankfulness  too. 

XI. 

That  time  is  long  past,  yet  its  gladness  remains  ; 
For  Bessie  still  soothes  all  Life's  cares  and  its  pains— 
Ever  hallowed  to  me  is  the  day  that  I  took 
My  bride  from  her  cottage  just  over  the  brook. 


THE   POET   AND  THE   SPARROW 

I. 

A  FRIENDLESS  poet,  sad  and  poor, 
AVcnt  forth  one  morn  from  his  humble  door, 
The  genial  sunbeams  cheered  his  way; 
The  busy  streets  of  the  town  were  gay ; 
And  smiling  crowds  allured  his  eye, 
As  fast  and  free  they  hurried  by, 
Like  sparkling  waves  'neath  summer  sky. 
But  he,  amid  that  rushing  tide, 
Moved  ever  slowly  on,  and  sighed  : — 
Joy's  rapid  march  he  might  not  share, 
For  his  heart  beat  low  to  the  notes  of  Care. 

II. 

He  had  hoped  for  fame — He  had  sought  it  long — • 

Pouring  out  his  soul  in  a  tide  of  song ; 

And  oft  had  listened,  yet  still  in  vain, 

For  the  voice  of  praise  to  reward  his  strain. 

Now  he  pined  to  be  in  some  lonely  glen, 

Afar  from  the  noisy  haunts  of  men, 

Believing  holy  peace  and  rest 

"\Yould  lull  the  tumult  of  his  breast. 


158         THE    POET  AND   THE   SPARROW. 

III. 

When  he'd  wandered  on  a  weary  hour, 
He  came  at  last  to  a  wild-wood  bower, 
A  beauteous,  calm  and  cool  retreat, 
Where  violets  breathed  their  perfume  sweet, 
Where  dainty  mosses,  softly  spread, 
And  green  boughs  waving  overhead, 
Made  drapery  meet  for  a  monarch's  bed. 

IV. 

There  Nature  with  an  aspect  mild, 
Looked  kindly  on  her  sorrowing  child  ; 
Whilst  he,  the  wayward  one, meanwhile, 
Regardless  of  her  soothing  smile, 
Sank  down,  to  breathe  a  fretful  sigh, 
And  murmur,  "  Here  would  I  like  to  die.'' 
Just  then,  from  the  long  grass  waving  near, 
Came  a  wild-bird's  note,  so  sweet  and  clear. 
So  eloquent  of  heart-felt  pleasure, 
So  tuned  to  Joy's  inspiring  measure, 
The  listener  could  not  choose  but  feel 
Its  cheering  influence  o'er  him  steal. 
Aroused  and  charmed,  he  gazed  around, 
To  see  what  warbler  woke  the  sound. 
It  was  not  one  of  plumage  bright, 
Of  matchless  form,  or  wing  of  might ; 
It  was  not  one  that  soars  on  high 
To  trill  its  music  in  the  sky  : 


T  II  E    P  0  E  T    A  XD    T  II E  S  PA  R  R  0  W.       1 59 


No  "  scorner  of  the  ground"  was  he 
Who  chanted  forth  that  minstrelsy. 
A  tiny  sparrow ! — one  that  made 
Its  nest  within  the  lowly  shade 
Of  mossy  dell,  or  grass-grown  spot, 
And  happy  there,  with  humblest  lot, 
Poured  forth,  from  morn  'til  eve,  a  strain 
That  gladdened  all  the  neighboring  plain. 

V. 

The  moody  man  who  heard  it  now, 
Uprose  with  lightened  heart  and  brow — 
Like  one  just  waked  from  troubled  dream, 
He  gazed  on  flow'ret  tree  and  stream. 
What  sudden  radiance  filled  the  sky  ! 
What  new-born  beauty  met  his  eye  ! 
Ah,  would  he  then  have  wished  to  die  ? 
'T  is  sweet,  when  lingering  storms  are  o'er, 
To  see  the  sun-beams  smile  cnce  more ; 
But  sweeter  far,  when  from  the  soul 
Despair's  dark,  sullen  shadows  roll, 
To  mark  the  dawning  of  that  ray 
Which  ushers  in  a  happier  day. ' 
As  homeward,  now,  the  poet  turned, 
Hope's  heaven-lit  star  before  him  burned : 


160       THE    POET    AND    THE    SPARROW. 


YI. 

Light  was  his  heart,  his  footstep  free, 
For  still  the  wild-bird's  minstrelsy 
Attuned  his  thoughts  to  Joy's  sweet  key ; 
And,  on  the  pleasant  theme  intent, 
These  words  he  murmured  as  he  went — 
"  His  life,  like  mine,  is  passed  amid 

The  lowliest  scenes ; — his  home  is  hid 

In  shades  obscure,  yet  is  his  lay 

Attuned  to  Rapture's  note  alway ; 

And  still,  with  gratitude  elate, 

As  if  'twere  breathed  at  heaven's  bright  gate. 

Oh,  let  me,  from  the  sparrow's  song, 

A  noble  lesson  learn — Too  long 

My  'plaining  heart  hath  murmured  low 

The  sad,  unvarying  notes  of  woe. 

How  could  I  hope  that  praise  would  flow 

Responsive  to  so  dull  a  theme  ? 

How  could  I  deem  the  world  would  show 

Favor,  to  Sorrow's  oft  told  dream  ? 

Henceforth  I'll  woo  a  merrier  chime, 

And  if  in  any  future  time, 

I  wake  one  heart,  as  mine  this  hour 

Was  wakened  in  yon  green-wood  bower, 

I  shall  not  then  have  idly  strung 

My  votive  lyre,  or  vainly  sung." 


THE  MODERN  MARTYR. 

A  FUNERAL  HYMN  TO  DOCTOR  KANE. 

"  Till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo,  and  a  light  unto  eternity  !" 

YE  mourning  ones,  who  now,  in  many  homes, 

Are  linked  in  one  vast  brotherhood  of  grief, 

Hush  your  deep  voice  of  sorrow  !     What  have  tears 

And  wild  laments  to  do  with  one  like  him, 

Our  hero-martyr,  who  so  early  won 

A  fadeless  crown  of  glory  ?     True,  the  flowers 

Of  that  bright  crown  scarce  ope'd  their  leaves  on  earth. 

But  they'll  unfold  to  full  and  perfect  bloom 

In  the  pure  light  of  Heaven's  celestial  bowers. 

Think  how  that  wreath,  gained  here  in  toil  and,  pain 

And  perils,  which  we  shudder  but  to  name, 

Think  how  it  looks  on  the  angelic  brow 

That  wears  it  now  'mid  Paradisial  joys  ! 

Oh !  Earth,  with  all  your  gifts,  you  had  not  one 

Holy  and  pure  enough  to  recompense 

The  brave  young  spirit  that  relinquished  all, 

And  suffered  all,  in  the  ennobling  cause 

Of  human  knowledge  and  of  human  good  ! 

What  were  the  best  awards  that  man  could  give — 
11 


162  T  H  E    M  0  D  E  R  N    M  A  R  T  Y  R, 


Honor,  and  fame,  and  love  of  countless  hearts — 
What  were  all  these,  to  Heaven's  ineffable  peace  ? 
Peace — welcome  rainbow  after  many  storms  ! 

Then  hush  the  voice  of  sorrow  !     He  ye  mourn, 
Went  not  to  his  serene  and  well-earned  rest, 
Till  his  great  task  was  done.     Oh  !  not  in  vain 
He  lived  and  toiled  and  suffered ! — Ages  hence, 
His  pure  example,  shining  like  a  star, 
Shall  light  young  pilgrims  on  the  path  to  Fame. 
Men  shall  grow  wiser,  holier,  as  they  bend 
Entranced,  above  the  page  whereon  is  writ, 
In  language  simply  truthful,  yet  sublime, 
The  record  of  his  deeds.     How  many  eyes 
Shall  weep  above  that  page  !     How  many  hearts 
Throb  with  ennobling  sympathy,  the  while 
They  trace  the  Wanderer  through  a  pilgrimage 
More  perilous,  more  wild  and  wondrous,  far, 
Than  all  the  fairy  ones  which  bards  of  old 
Sang  to  a  listening  world  ! 

We  need  not  build 

A  monument  above  our  Martyr's  grave, 
For  every  generous  heart  will  rear  a  shrine 
Within  its  holiest  chamber,  there  to  keep, 
Amid  all  sacred  memories,  his  name. 
And,  Nature,  too,  like  an  enamoured  maid 
Who  mourns  her  lover,  shall  in  varied  tones, 


THE    MODERN    MARTYR.  163 


Breathe  eloquent  tributes  to  the  noble  dead. 
Her  minstrel  winds  shall  oft  his  requiem  sing; 
Her  noisy  troops  of  ocean  waves  shall  chant 
The  story  of  their  conflicts  with  the  true 
And  valiant  mariner,  who  never  quailed 
Before  their  stormiest  might.     Year  after  year 
The  myriad  stars  which  gleam  in  winter  skies 
Shall  trace,  upon  the  illumined  page  of  heaven, 
The  history  of  those  long,  dark  Arctic  nights, 
Whose  rigors  could  not  chill,  nor  horrors  daunt 
The  pilgrim's  patient  soul.     E'en  the  wild  sprite 
That  on  our  casement  draws,  in  frosty  eves, 
Such  wondrous  pictures — he,  too,  shall  become 
The  Arctic  Hero's  mute  historian  ; 
And  when  we  wake  at  morning,  there  will  be 
Outspread  before  us,  on  that  crystal  map, 
A  semblance  of  the  Ice  King's  dread  abode ! 
There  shall  we  see  the  wild,  bleak,  desolate  shores — 
The  pathless  fields  of  snow — the  lonely  ship 
Locked  in  her  dreary  prison,  and  her  crew, 
Flitting  like  pallid  phantoms  here  and  there, 
Battling  with  hunger,  cold,  disease  and  death — 
And  conquering  only  by  the  unfailing  aid 
Of  one  who  moves  amid  their  shadowy  band — 
A  minister   of  life  and  hope  to  all ! 


164  THE  MODERX  MARTYR. 


"We  need  not  trace  the  loved  and  honored  name 
Of  him  whose  fate  hath  claimed  our  tears  to-day. 
Oh,  sacred  name ! — Will  not  the  world's  great  heart 
To  quick  pulsations  throb,  whene'er  'tis  breathed  ? 
Will  it  not  shine  upon  the  minds  of  men — 
A  radiant  sun  in  the  calm  heaven  of  Thought  ? 
And  the  bright  deeds  linked  to  its  memory  still, 
Circling  it  round  like  music-breathing  stars, 
Will  they  not  be— as  sang  the  tuneful  bard 
"An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity?" 


ipns  anfr 


HYMNS   AND   SONGS. 


HYMN  TO   THE   DEITY. 

I. 
THOU  Giver  of  all  earthly  good, 

Thou  wonder-working  Power 
Whose  spirit  smiles  in  every  star, 

And  breathes  in  every  flower — 
How  gratefully  we  speak  thy  name ! 

How  gladly  own  thy  sway ! 
How  thrillingly  thy  presence  feel, 

When  'mid  thy  works  we  stray! 

II. 
We  may  forget  thy  glorious  gifts 

In  scenes  with  tumult  rife, 
Where  worldly  care  or  pleasure  claims 

Too  large  a  share  of  life; 
But  not  in  Nature's  sweet  domain 

Where  every  thing  we  see, 


168  HYMNITO    THE     DEITY. 


From  loftiest  mount  to  lowliest  flower, 
Is  eloquent  of  Thee. 

III. 
Where  waves  lift  up  their  tuneful  voice, 

And  solemn  anthems  chime ; 
Where  winds  through  echoing  forests  peal 

Their  melodies  sublime ; 
Where  e'en  insensate  objects  breathe 

Devotion's  grateful  lays, 
Man  cannot  choose  but  join  the  choir 

That  hymns  his  Maker's  praise. 

IV. 

Beneath  the  city's  gilded  domes, 

In  temples  decked  with  care, 
Where  Art  and  Splendor  vie  to  make 

Thine  earthly  mansions  fair  ; 
Our  forms  may  lowly  bend,  our  lips 

May  breathe  a  formal  lay, 
The  while  our  wayward  hearts  refuse 

These  holy  rites  to  pay. 

V. 

But  in  that  grander  temple,  reared 
By  thine  Almighty  hand, 


HYMN    TO    THE    DEITY.  160 


Where  glorious  beauty  bids  the  mind's 

Diviner  powers  expand, 
Our  thoughts  like  willing  vassals  give 

A  homage  glad  and  free, 
Our  souls  in  adoration  bow, 

And  mutely  reverence  Thee. 


HYMN  TO  THE  PASSING  YEAK 

WHILE  thy  last  footsteps  linger  on  the  verge 
Of  that  most  solemn  realm  we  call  the  Past, 
Let  us,  departing  Pilgrim,  wake  a  hymn 
Meet  for  thy  closing  hours.     And  not  in  strains 
Of  sorrow  or  regret,  be  breathed  the  lay ; 
But  in  proud  numbers,  such  as  bards  of  old 
"Were  wont  to   sing  o'er  heroes  as  they  fell — 
For  like  to  one  whose  task  is  bravely  done, 
Thou  goest  to  thy  rest,  Oh,  dying  Year. 
Thy  flying  moments  and  thy  dancing  hours, 
Fleet-footed  days,  and  slowly-gliding  months 
Have  all  fulfilled  their  mission.     Each,  in  turn, 
Has  brought  some  welcome  tribute  unto  man. 
Thy  rosy  Morns  have  laughed  along  the  sky, 
And  woke  the  world  to  new-born  hope  and  joy; 
Thy  tranquil  Eves  have  hushed  the  pulse  of  Care 
And  given  to  toiling  men  the  sweets  of  rest. 
The  starry  glances  of  thy  midnight  hours 
Have  filled  the  poet's  soul  with  dreams  sublime, 
And  lit  the  student  on  his  path  to  fame. 
Thy  AYinter,  with  its  dear  domestic  joys, 
Hath  closelier  knit  the  holy  bonds  of  Love, 
And  riveted  anew  the  silvery  links 


HYHtf   TO   THE    PASSING   YEAR.  171 


Of  Friendship's  sacred  chain.     Thy  balmy  Spring 

Didst,  with  her  "  dewey  fingers,"  clothe  each  wild 

Aud  barren  glen,  'til  it  became  as  fair 

Aa  Eden's  primal  bower.     Thy  summer,  too, 

Strewing  her  fairy  favors  far  and  wide, 

Didst  make  all  Earth  a  temple  of  sweet  praise, 

A  sanctuary,  whence  the  song  of  birds 

And  incense-breath  of  countless  pure-lipped  flowers, 

Rose  as  meet  offerings  to  the  smiling  heaven. 

As  still,  oh  !  tireless  Year,  thy  march  went  on, 

Autumn,  the  loveliest  of  thy  children,  came 

To  breathe  new  spells  of  sorcery  o'er  the  land. 

Then  Nature's  fairest,  goodliest  gifts  were  ours  ; 

Then  teeming  fields  gave  up  their  buried  wealth, 

And  yellow  harvests  spread  like  lakes  of  gold 

O'er  all  the  level  plain.     Then  tempting  fruits 

Blushed   bright  on  every  bough,  and  like  glad  smiles 

Dimpling  a  bcautious  face,  added  new  charms 

To  all  the  witching  scene. 

Now,  pilgrim  Year, 

Thy  varied  tasks  are  done,  well  mayest  thou  go 
To  thine  eternal  rest.     Our  hearts  shall  hold 
Loving  remembrance  of  thee,  as  a  friend 
Who  brought  us  precious  gifts— bright  dreams,  sweet  hopes, 
And  many  sacred  joys.     Also,  shalt  thou 
Be  gratefully  remembered,  for  the  wise 


172  TO   THE    PASSING   YEAR. 


And  truthful  admonitions  thou  hast  given. 
And  if,  perchance,  we  sometimes  must  recall 
The  added  weight  of  sorrow  or  of  care 
Thou  laidst  upon  our  hearts,  yet  will  we  deem 
That  this,  like  chastening  to  a  wayward  child, 
Was  needful  to  our  good.     Wiser  are  we 
For  all  thy  lessons,  and  more  skilled  to  bear 
Whatever  of  disappointment  or  of  ill 
Thy  yet  uncrowned  successor  may  unveil. 


SONG. 
"WE'VE  HAD  OUR  SIIAUE  or  BLISS." 

I. 

WE'VE  had  our  share  of  bliss,  beloved ; 

We've  had  our  share  of 'bliss ; 
And  mid  the  varying  scenes  of  life, 

Let  us  remember  this. 
If  sorrows  come,  from  vanished  joy 

We'll  borrow  holiest  light, — 
Such  sweet  reflection  as  the  sun 

Lends  to  the  queen  of  Night ; 
And  thus  by  Memory's  moonbeams  cheered, 

Hope's  sun  we  shall  not  miss, 
But  tread  life's  path  as  gay  as  when 

We  had  our  share  of  bliss. 

II. 
'T  is  true  our  sky  hath  had  its  clouds ; 

Our  spring  its  stormy  hours, 
When  we  have  mourned,  as  all  must  mourn, 

O'er  blighted  buds  and  flowers. 
And  true  our  bark  hath  sometimes  neared 

Despair's  most  desert  shore, 
When  gloomy  looked  the  waves  around, 

And  dark  the  land  before. 


174  "WE'VE   HAD  OUR  SHARE  OF  BLISS." 


But  Love  was  ever  at  the  helm ! — 

He  could  not  go  amiss, 
So  long  as  two  fond  spirits  sang 

"We've  had  our  share  of  bliss." 

III. 
These  holy  watch-words  of  the  Past 

Shall  be  the  Future's  stay ; — 
Still  by  their  magic  aid  we'll  keep 

A  host  of  ills  at  bay. 
Our  happy  hearts,  like  tireless  bees, 

While  reveling  mid  the  flowers, 
Hived  a  rich  store  of  summer  sweets 

To  cheer  life's  wintry  hours. 
While  Memory  lives,  and  Love  remains, 

We'll  ask  no  more  than  this. 
But  ever  sing,  in  grateful  strains, 

"  We've  had  our  share  of  bliss." 


SONG  OF  THE  SEA. 

I. 

WAKE,  slumbering  billows,  wake ! 
Tis  near  the  midnight  hour — 
Now  lift  your  crested  heads,  and  make 
Earth  tremble  at  your  power. 
The  winds  have  left  their  caves ; 
Dark  clouds  are  in  the  sky; 

And  the  spirit  of  the  gathering  storm 
Sends  forth  its  warning  cry. 

Then  wake  my  billows,  wake 
And  dance  in  wild  delight, 
And  sing  and  shout  and  leap  about— 
For  we'll  have  good  work  to-night  I 

II. 

There's  a  noble  youth  and  a  gentle  maid, 

Who  have  plighted  heart  and  hand — 
Now  they  merrily  sail  with  a  favoring  gale, 

Away  from  their  native  land. 
They  fly  from  those  who  vainly  sought 

To  sever  Love's  fond  tie; 
And  on  some  sweet  isle,  where  sunbeams  smilo 

They  hope  to  live  and  die. 
Their  hearts  are  brave,  and  their  dreams  are  fair- 


170  SONG    OF    THE   SEA. 


But  their  barque  is  frail  and  light — • 
The  tiny  thing,  with  its  loving  freight, 

Must  be  your  prey  to  night. 
Ye  may  take  the  youth  in  his  manly  pride; 

The  maid  in  her  blooming  grace, 
And  bear  them  off  on  your  foaming  tide, 

While  they  cling  in  a  last  embrace. 
Then  down,  far  down,  in  my  caverns  dim, 

Their  nuptial  couch  we'll  spread ; 
And  grand  shall  be  the  bridal  hymn 
We  chant  above  the  dead. 

Then  wake  my  billows,  wake ! 
And  dance  in  wild  delight, 
And  sing  and  shout  and  leap  about, 
For  we'll  have  good  work  to-night ! 

III. 

There's  a  stately  ship  on  its  homeward  course— 

The  voyage  is  almost  o'er; 
And  a  happy  band  on  the  deck  now  stand 

To  watch  for  their  native  shore 
How  glad  and  bright  with  Hope's  sweet  light, 

Is  every  eye  and  brow ; 
How  blest  and  dear,  to  all  appear 

The  joys  that  wait  them  now. 
What  pleasant  thoughts  of  friends  and  home, 

Of  love  and  peace  and  rest, 


SONG   OF   THE    SEA.  177 


Thrill,  like  a  magic  music  tone, 

Each  weary  wanderer's  breast ! 
But  come,  my  merry  waves,  and  bid 

These  glowing  dreams  depart ; 
And  plant  instead,  wild  fear  and  dread 

In  every  throbbing  heart. 
Come  gather  all  your  stormy  force, 

And  bravely  work  awhile, 
And  bear  the  good  ship  from  its  course 

To  the  rocks  of  yonder  isle. 
Then  merry  'twill  be,  the  strife  to  see, 

As  she  nears  the  rugged  shore, 
And  her  timbers  dash  with  a  mighty  crash 

On  th.e  stern  unyeilding  floor. 
What  a  stirring  sound  will  peal  around 

In  that  triumphant  hour, 
When  every  pallid  trembler  owns 

The  Ocean-Spirit's  power ! 
Oh,  many  a  cry  of  wild  dismay, 

And  many  an  anguished  prayer, 
And  many  a  shriek  of  mortal  dread 

Will  rise  on  the  midnight  air ! 
But  heed  them  not  my  merry  waves, 

For  this  is  your  jubilee, 
And  ye  may  drown  each  note  of  grief 

In  a  shout  of  frolic  glee. 
12 


ITS  SUNG    OF   THE    SEA. 


Yc  may  dance  around  your  victim-band, 

Ere  ye  bear  them  off  below ; 
Ye  may  laugh  to  scorn  the  wild  appeals 

They  breathe  in  that  hour  of  woe. 
Ye  may  take  the  wedded  pair  who  strive 

Each  dearer  self  to  save, 
And  give  the  hearts  "so  linked  in  life 

An  undivided  grave." 
Ye  may  take  the  mother,  as  she  folds 

Her  infant  to  her  breast, 
And  rock  them  both  in  a  cradle-bed, 

Thus  lovingly  to  rest. 
Ye  may  take  them  each  and  every  one — 

The  mariner  stout  and  bold  ; 
The  youth  in  the  prime  of  his  glad  spring  time 

The  man  who  is  worn  and  old. 
Ye  may  take  them  all,  as  a  conqueror  takes 

His  foes  in  the  conquest  hour, 
And  wake  the  victor's  proudest  strains 
O'er  the  band  that  braved  your  power. 
Then,  wake,  my  merry  waves,  awake ! 
And  dance  in  wild  delight ; 
And  sing  and  shout  and  leap  about, 
For  we'll  have  good  work  to  night ! 


SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  FLOWERS. 

I. 

WE  come  with  smiles  of  gladness, 

Tho'  chased  by  dread  Decay; 
And  we  claim  a  kindly  welcome 

For  we  have  not  long  to  stay. 
Grant  us  a  gleam  of  sunshine, 

A  kiss  from  Summer's  breeze, 
A  few  of  heaven's  dew-drops, — 

We  ask  no  more  than  these. 

II. 

Then,  in  your  daily  pathway 
So  cheerfully  we'll  bloom, 
And  'round  your  pleasant  dwellings 

We'll  lavish  rich  perfume. 
Your  hours  of  toil  we'll  sweeten; 

We'll  smile  away  your  care, 
And  we'll  even  bid  your  sorrows 
A  holy  aspect  wear. 

III. 
This  world  hath  human  blossoms 

With  nature's  like  our  own, 
Whose  bloom,  from  Earth's  fair  bowers 

May  be  as  quickly  gone. 


180     SONG  OF   THE  SUMMER   FLOWERS. 


Such  pure,  pale  buds  of  beauty 
Are  the  angels  of  Life's  way ; — 

Oh,  cherish  them  with  kindness, 
While  in  your  homes  they  stay ! 

IV. 
Give  them  plenty  of  Love's  sunshine, 

With  Pity's  gentle  dew ; 
And  let  the  breath  of  tenderness 

Their  daily  steps  pursue. 
Then  while  they  dwell  among  you, 

They'll  brighten  all  your  hours, 
And  when  they  pass  to  Heaven, 

They'll  go  gently  like  the  flowers. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HYMN  TO  THE 
DEPARTED. 

I. 

SLEEP,  dearest,  sleep!    Love  yearns  to  take  thee 

From  thy  deep  repose; 
But  'twere  cruel  now  to  wake  thee 

To  life's  bitter  woes. 
Sleep  in  peace — thy  mother's  sorrow 

Shall  not  break  thy  rest, 
For  amid  her  grief  she'll  borrow 

Joy  to  know  thee  blest 

II. 
Sleep,  dearest,  sleep! — Tho'  Hope  departed 

When  I  laid  thee  low, 
She  who  soothes  the  broken-hearted, — 

Memory,  did  not  go. 
Now  she  cheers  my  mournful  dreaming 

With  thy  smiling  eyes, 
'Til  like  rainbows  they  are  beaming 

In  Thought's  clouded  skies. 

III. 

Sleep,  dearest,  sleep !     No  power  shall  harm  thee 
Tho'  I  am  not  nigh ; 


182  HYMN  TO  THE  DEPARTED. 


Angel  voices  now  shall  charm  thee 

With  soft  lullaby  ; 
Angel  mothers  now  caress  thee 

"With  a  love  like  mine ; 
Angel  care  and  kindness  bless  thee 

In  thy  home  divine. 

IV. 
Sleep,  dearest,  sleep !     The  tie  that  bound  us 

Is  not  severed  quite ; 
Still  Love's  mystic  chain  is  'round  us; 

Still  our  souls  unite. 
By  that  sacred  tie  I  greet  thee 

Mid  the  pure  and  blest ; 
By  its  aid  I  hope  to  meet  thee 

And  partake  thy  rest. 


THE    MISANTHROPE'S    SONG. 

I. 

IN  the  morning  hours  of  life 
I  believed  that  no  reviling, 
No  harsh  word  of  scorn  or  strife 
Marred  a  world  so  sweet  and  smiling. 
Wrapped  in  visions  pure  as  those 
Which  a  slumbering  infant  knows, 
Lived  I  on  from  day  to  day, 
Ever  blest  and  ever  gay. 
Not  the  butterfly  that  dances 
Over  Summer's  perfumed  flower, 
Not  the  sunny  beam  that  glances 
Slyly  thro'  a  leafy  bower, 
Not  a  thing  in  earth  or  sky 
Half  so  light  and  free  as  I. 

II. 

Then — oh,  then,  how  rich  was  earth  i 
Kich  in  things  of  priceless  Avorth — 
Stars  and  flowers  and  birds  and  streams, 
All  awoke  ecstatic  dreams; 
And  human  hearts — oh,  they  to  me 
Were,  then  such  mines  of  truth  and  love, 


184  MISANTHROPE'S    SONG. 


I  deemed  them  all  from  error   free, 
All  pure  as  angel  hearts  above. 

III. 

Creation  still  is  robed  in  light, 
And  Earth  still  graced  with  many  a  treasure; 
Flowers,  trees  and  birds,  and  star-beams  bright 
Still  wake  the  old  poetic  pleasure. 
But  where 's  the  trust  in  human  kind — 
That  holy  faith  which  bade  me  find 
The  germ  of  good  in  every  mind  ? 
Alas,  the  sweet  belief  is  fled  ! 
I  fear  me  that  'tis  gone  forever ! 
The  sunny  light  that  once  it  shed 
Around  my  path,  now  cheers  me  never. 
I  find  the  world  so  cold  and  stern, 
So  different  from  my  first  believing, 
That  oft  I  know  not  where  to  turn 
From  traitorous  lips  and  hearts  deceiving. 

IV. 

And  now,  as  o'er  the  Past  I  glance, 
I  sigh  not  for  Youth's  fairy  pleasures, 
Its  golden  hours  of  song  and  dance, 
Its  smiling  hopes,  its  blooming  treasures— 
I  only  sigh  with  fond  regret, 
For  that  lost  star  whose  light  is  set — 


MISANTHROPE'S    SONG.  185 


That  trusting  faith  in  human  worth 
Which  brightened  every  early  vision, 
And  made  the  lowliest  haunt  of  earth 
As  beautiful  as  realms  Elysian. 


LOVE    SONG-. 


I. 

I  WOULD  be  with  thee,  love,  at  Mora's  sweet  hour, 
When  smiling  sun-beams  woo  the  earliest  flower; 
When  waking  zephyrs  kiss  the  slumbering  lake 
And  bid  its  languid  breast  to  music  wake ; 
When  every  tuneful  bird,  with  bliss  elate, 
Trills  out  melodious  greetings  to  his  mate  ; 
When  Nature's  mighty  heart,  in  grove  and  glen, 
Beats  warm  with  love — I  would  be  with  thee  then. 

II. 

I  would  be  with  thee  at  the  twilight  dim, 
When  Earth  sends  up  to  heaven  her  evening  hymn; 
When  whispering  night-winds  breathe  their  passionate  sighs, 
And  soft  clouds  weep  adieu,  as  day-light  dies ; 
When  flow'rets  droop  their  heads  in  fond  regret, 
While  their  pale  cheeks  with  dewy  tears  are  wet ; 
When  over  Earth  and  all  her  living  men 
Love  breathes  its  spell — I  would  be  with  thee  then. 

III. 

I  would  be  with  thee,  dearest,  at  the  hour 
Of  starry  midnight,  when  a  holy  power 


LOVE     SONG.  187 


Broods  over  peaceful  homes — when  fond  hearts  yearn 
To  know  the  mystery  of  those  worlds  which  burn, 
Forever,  o'er  them — When  they  feel  the  gleam 
Of  their  own  love,  kin  to  the  fadeless  beam 
That  lights  the  stars!     Oh,  dear  to  mortal  ken 
Is  midnight's  hour — I  would  be  with  thee  then. 

IV. 

I  would  be  with  thee  ever — What  to  me 
Were  Nature's  music  if  unheard  by  thee  ? 
What  starry  night,  bright  morn,  or  evening  fair, 
Wert  thou  not  near,  their  varied  charms  to  share  ? 
Ever  beside  thee — In  Life's  spring  time  gay, 
Its  summer,  autumn,  e'en  its  winter  day, 
And,  when  our  spirits  leave  the  abodes  of  men, 
Oh,  most  of  all,  I  would  be  with  thee  then. 


BOAT   SONG. 

I. 

Gliding  on,  in  a  shallop  that  dances 

So  gaily  away  from  the  shore  : 
Gliding  on,  o'er  a  stream  whose  soft  glances 

Are  bright  as  the  smiles  we  adore : 
Gliding  on,  o'er  this  beautiful  river, 

With  favoring  breezes  and  skies, 
Let  our  hearts  be  secure  as  if  never 

The  wind  or  the  tempest  could  rise. 

II. 
We  know  that  dark  shadows  may  cover 

The  wave  that  now  smiles  so  serene; 
We  know  the  wild  storm-cloud  may  hover, 

In  wrath,  o'er  this  glorious  scene. 
But  we'll  trust  to  these  moments  of  pleasure, 

And  while  they  are  speeding  away, 
We'll  enbalm  them  in  songs  of  glad  measure, 

To  sing  on  some  far-future  day. 

III. 
While  the  sky  bends  so  lovingly  o'er  us, 

And  the  wave  looks  so  tranquil  below, 
We'll  fancy  Life's  current,  before  us, 

Ever  lit  by  the  same  magic  glow. 


BOAT    SONG.  189 


And  we'll  sing,  as  we  glide  o'er  the  river, 
Witt  favoring  breezes  and  skies — 

Gaily  sing,  with  glad  hearts,  as  if  never 
The  wind  or  the  tempest  could  rise. 


A.N    INDIAN  MOTHER'S    LAMENT. 

[Os-he-oua-mai,  the  wife  of  Little  Wolf,  one  of  the  Iowa  Indians, 
died  while  in  Paris,  of  an  affection  of  the  lungs,  brought  on  by  grief 
for  the  death  of  her  young  child  in  London.  Her  husband  was  un 
remitting  in  his  endeavors  to  console  her,  and  restore  her  to  the  love 
of  life,  but  she  constantly  replied — "  No  !  no !  my  four  children  re 
call  me. — I  see  them  by  the  side  of  the  Great  Spirit. — They  stretch 
out  their  arms  to  me,  and  are  astonished  that  I  do  not  join  them.''] 

I. 

I  must,  I  must  depart 

From  all  earth's  pleasant  scenes — they  do  but  wake 
Those  thrilling  memories  of  the  lost  which  shake 

Its  life-sands  from  my  heart. 

II. 

"Why  do  you  bid  me  stay  ? 
Should  the  rose  linger  when  the  young  buds  die, 
Or  the  tree  nourish,  when  its  branches  lie 

Stricken  by  sad  decay  ? 

III. 

Doth  not  the  parent  dove, 

When  her  young  nurslings  leave  their  lowly  home, 
And  soar  on  joyous  wings  to  heaven's  blue  dome — 

Fly  the  deserted  grove  ? 


INDIAN    MOTHER'S    LAMENT.          191 


IV. 

Then  why  should  I  remain  ? 
Have  I  not  seen  my  sweet-voiced  warblers  soar 
So  far  away,  that  Love's  fond  wiles,  no  more 

May  lure  them  back  again? 

V. 

They  cannot  come  to  me ! 
But  I  may  go  to  them — and  as  parched  flowers 
Await  the  dewy  eve,  I  wait  the  hour 

That  sets  my  spirit  free. 

VI. 

Hark !  heard  ye  not  a  sound 
Sweeter  than  wild-bird's  note  or  lover's  lay  ? 
[  know  that  music  well,  for  night  and  day 

It  echoes  softly  round. 

VII. 

It  is  the  tuneful  chime 
Of  spirit-voices; — 'tis  my  infant  band 
Calling  their  mother  from  this  darkened  land, 

To  joy's  unclouded  clime. 


ODE  FOR   THE   4th    OF   JULY. 

I. 

An  anthem  of  glory,  a  soul-stirring  strain, 

Afar  over  mountain  and  valley  is  pealing  ! 

Now  it  swells  on  the  breeze,  now  it  floats  o'er  the  main — 

A  Nation's  proud  story  of  triumph  revealing, 

'Tis  Columbia's  glad  lay  ! 

And  it  welcomes  the  day 

When  she  first  cast  Oppression's  dark  fetters  away— 
Oh,  long  may  such  music  an  amulet  be 
To  shield  from  all  dangers  this  land  of  the  free ! 

II. 

In  the  tempest  of  warfare  our  fore-fathers  rose, 

And  fearless  they  stood  when  its  thunders  burst  o'er  them , 

They  fell  in  that  storm,  but  they  sank  to  repose, 

With  the  sunbeams  of  liberty  smiling  before  them. 

Thus  our  country  was  won, 

And  her  glory  begun, 
For  Valor  inspired  every  true  hearted  son, 
Whose  life-blood  was  poured  on  the  germ  of  that  tree 
Which  now  proudly  shelters  the  home  of  the  free. 


FOURTH    OF    JULY.  193 


III. 

Those   heroes  still  live  in  the  records  of  fame; 
Their  deeds  are  inscribed  on  the  temple  of  glory ; 
A  nation  reveres  every  patriot  name, 
And  the  children  of  freemen  repeat  their  proud  story. 

As  years  roll  away, 

Still  this  festival  day 

Shall  claim  the  proud  theme  for  a  soul-stirring  lay ; 
While  its  hallowed  memory  ever  shall  be 
Embalmed  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 


THE    HYMN    TO    JOY. 

SUGGESTED     BY     A     PICTURE. 
I. 

There  lived  a  poet,  in  a  by-gone  day, 

Renowned  for  weaving  many  a  tuneful  lay — 

His  own  fair  land  paid  homage  to  his  name, 

And  distant  nations  chronicled  his  fame. 

Each  song  he  sung,  from  lip  and  heart  would  gain 

The  meed  of  praise — but  one  harmonious  strain, 

Whose  dulcet  notes  have  echoed  far  and  wide, 

Is  loved  and   chanted  more  than  all  beside  : 

Sacred,  e'en  yet,  the  dwelling  where  'twas  penn'd, 

For,  as  the  traveler's  footsteps  thither  tend, 

He  sees  inscribed  above  the  lowly  door 

Where  the  great  poet  lived  in  days  of  yore, 

These  words — which  none  may  darken  or  destroy — 

Here  Schiller  wrote  his  noble  Hymn  to  Joy  ! 

II. 

A  Hymn  to  Joy !— well  might  the  minstrel's  lyre 
Be  tuned  to  sweetness — well  his  soul  aspire 
To  loftiest  strains  of  music,  when  his  dream 
Lured  him  to  choose  so  eloquent  a  theme. 


HYMN    TO    JOY.  .     195 


Joy !  is  it  not  a  thing  of  birth  divine  ? 

Methinks  where'er  its  holy  light  doth  shine, 

It  showeth  beauties  unrevealed  before. 

If  its  pure  radiance,  round  the  lowly  door 

Of  humblest  cottage  smile,  that  home,  straightway, 

Is  fair  as  palace  proud  or  mansion  gay. 

If  its  glad  beam,  o'er  features  dull  and  cold 

Flash  like  the  morn,  then  may  the  eye  behold 

A  magic  change — the  dark,  unlovely  face 

Catches,  at  once,  the  charm  of  bloom  and  grace. 

III. 

But  joy  is  holiest  when  its  ray  illumes 
The  brows  of  happy  children ; — when  it  blooms 
Upon  their  glowing  cheeks — a  stainless  flower, 
Pure  as  the  buds  that  oped  in  Eden's  bower. 
I  saw,  one  summer  morn,  beside  a  stream 
Whose  wave  was  calm  as  rivers  in  a  dream, 
A  group  of  little  ones,  whose  features  wore 
This  light  divine ; — and  as  they  bent  them  o'er 
The  mimic  lake,  their  smiling,  sparkling  eyes 
Jewelled  the  wave,  as  stars  begem  the  skies. 
Sweet  were  the  flowers  that  sprung  beneath  their  feet; 
Soft  was  the  moss  that  cushioned  each  low  seat; 
While  the  tall  tree,  that  like  a  curtain  spread 
Its  graceful  drapery  o'er  each  fair  young  head, 


196  HYMN    TO   JOY. 


Waved  in  the  breeze  to  let  the  smiling  sun 
Peep  thro',  at  times,  to  view  their  childish  fun. 
A  mimic  ship  was  launched  upon  the  wave — 
And,  as  it  onward  moved,  glad  voices  gave 
A  tiny  cheer,  which  echoing  gaily  round, 
Woke  fond  belief  some  fairy  mock'd  the  sound. 

IV. 

How  happy  were  they  in  their  sinless  play ! 
How,  from  each  bounding  heart,  went  up  to  heaven 
A  hymn  to  joy,  all  tuneful  as  that  lay 
The  dreaming  bard  once  sang !     Such  incense,  given 
By  the  young  stainless  spirit,  in  its  hour 
Of  innocent  mirth,  is,  to  the  Unseen  Power 
That  rules  this  beauteous  world,  an  offering  fair 
And  sacred  as  the  holiest  voice  of  prayer. 


SONG. 

I. 
It  hath  been  said  that  Love's  sweet  dream 

Is  dearest  in  life's  early  hours, 
"When  Earth  is  lit  by  Rapture's  beam, 

And  Time  moves  on  o'er  thornless  flowers. 

II. 
Believe  it  not — those  happy  years 

May  prove  that  vision  fond  and  true, 
But  darker  days  of  clouds  and  tears 

Will  robe  it  in  a  heavenly  hue. 

III. 

Oh,  none  save  hearts  long  tried  in  woe 
Can  feel  Affection's  might  sublime ; 

And  none  save  those  can  truly  know 
How  hallowed  'tis  by  Change  and  Time. 

IV. 
'T  is  sweet  our  loved  ones'  smiles  to  share 

In  the  gay  season  of  delight ; 
But  sweeter  far  to  soothe  their  care, 

And  weep  with  them  thro'  Sorrow's  night. 


198  SONG. 


V. 

Love's  morning  dream  is  like  a  flower 
Of  balmiest  breath  and  brightest  hue, 

Blooming  in  Summer's  radiant  hour, 

And  gemm'd  with  sparkling  pearls  of  dew 

VI 
But  that  sweet  dream,  in  later  days, 

Is  like  the  holy  star  of  even, 
That  points,  with  ever-smiling  rays, 

To  joys  which  have  their  source  in  heaven. 


THE    ROVER'S    SERENADE. 

I. 

Wake !  wake,  fairost  maiden,  and  hasten  with  me 
O'er  the  sparkling  waves  of  this  star-lighted  sea; 
Gentle  breezes  shall  waft  our  fleet  bark,  ere  the  day, 
To  a  kingdom  where  thou  shalt  be  sov'reign  alway. 

II. 

I  have  made  thee  a  home  on  a  beautiful  Isle 
Where  sunbeams  first  fall,  and  where  moonbeams  last  smile ; 
Where  fragrance  floats  ever  on  zephyr's  light  wing 
And  wild-birds  their  sweetest  of  melodies  sing. 

III. 

I  have  placed  near  thy  dwelling  the  vines  you  love  best; 
With  thy  favorite  blossoms  its  gardens  I've  dressed  ; 
I  have  decked  it  with  spoils  from  the  land  and  the  sea, 
To  make  it,  love,  worthy  thy  beauty  and  thee. 

IV. 

I  have  stolen  bright  gems  from  the  mermaid's  deep  cave, 
And  plucked  the  rich  coral  she  hides  in  the  wave  ; 
I  have  been  'neath  the  darkest  and  stormiest  tide, 
To  gather  its  purest  of  pearls  for  my  bride. 


200  ROVER'S    SERENADE. 


V. 

Then  come,  dearest  maiden — haste,  haste  o'er  the  deep, 
While  its  waves  are  all  hushed,  and  the  winds  all  asleep , 
While  the  Storm-spirit  hides  in  his  dark  home  afar, 
And  Love  smiles  serene  from  each  beautiful  star. 

VI. 

Oh,  haste  thee — my  comrades,  true-hearted  and  brave, 
Give  the  signal  that  calls  me  again  o'er  the  wave : 
Our  fleet  bark  is  ready — with  Morn's  early  smile 
It  shall  anchor  thee  safe  near  thy  own  fairy  Isle. 


A    HYMN    OF    THANKS. 

As  a  frail  flower,  o'erburthened  with  sweet  dew, 

Bends  'neath  the  radiant  flood,  so  my  full  heart 

Bendeth  this  morn  beneath  a  sparkling  tide 

Of  inexpressible  joy — The  crystal  drops 

That  weigh  the  blossom  down  descend  from  heaven, 

And  so,  from  heaven  descends  this  precious  flood 

Of  grateful  feeling. 

Many  a  weary  day, 

A.nd  woeful  night  my  shuddering  soul  hath  known 
The  chilling  grasp  of  Fear — Fear  for  the  life 
Of  a  beloved  child.     Hour  after  hour 
[  bent  me  o'er  his  couch,  noting  the  signs 
That  suffering  traced  upon  his  beauteous  brow. 
When  every  art  the  skilful  Healer  tried 
Had  failed  to  stay  the  dread  march  of  Disease ; 
When  all  my  yearning  love  could  aid  no  more  ; 
And  when  sweet  Hope  had  smiled  her  last,  and  died, 
Then,  deep  in  stillest  chambers  of  my  heart, 
Hiding  the  woe  that  hath  no  type  in  words, 
[  stood  in  the  mute  calmness  of  despair, 
Waiting  the  last  dread  change.     But  God  was  good  ! 
And  tho'  the  prayers  that  ceaselessly  arose 
From  my  bowed  soul,  went  voiceless  up  to  heaven, 


202  A    HYMN    OP    THANKS. 


Yet  was  each  mute  appeal  accepted  there; 

And  answered  graciously. 

There  came  a  change — - 

Not  such  as  I  had  feared,  but  a  most  sweet 
And  gladsome  change  !     The  fainting  pulse  of  life 
Regained  its  tranquil  beat ;  the  healthful  glow 
Stole  slowly  back  to  pallid  lip  and  brow : 
The  dim  and  half  closed  eye,  once  more  sent  forth 
Its  ray  of  glorious  beauty.     He  was  saved ! 
The  child  of  many  a  tearful  prayer  was  saved — 
And  when  the  light  of  that  most  welcome  truth 
Broke  like  the  morn,  this  flood  of  holiest  joy, 
Which  I  have  likened  to  the  balmy  dew 
That  pitying  Night  distils  on  perishing  flowers, 
0  'er-filled  the  life-cells  of  my  drooping  heart, 
And  bade  it  lift  itself  to  hope  and  heaven. 


DIRGE    FOR    A   DEPARTING   RACE 

I. 

AMID  the  cheerful  sounds  that  float 

Around  our  pleasant  homes, 
An  under-toue  of  Sorrow's  note, 

In  mournful  music  comes. 

II. 
It  lingers  round  the  sun-lit  mount 

And  o'er  the  shadowy  vale, 
Breathes  soft  in  every  murmuring  fount, 

And  sighs  in  every  gale. 

III. 
Wilder,  within  our  forest  shades, 

And  near  our  mighty  lakes, 
And  o'er  the  prairie's  broad  expanse, 

The  plaintive  cadence  wakes. 

IV. 

The  Spirit  of  Nature  breathes  this  chant 

In  every  sylvan  place — 
Methinks  it  is  her  farewell  hymn 

To  a  departing  race. 


204      DIRGE    FOR    A   DEPARTING   RACE. 


V. 

Methinks  she  mourns  the  Ked  Man's  fate, 

As,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
Depressed,  dishonoured,  desolate, 

He  turns  him  to  depart. 

VI. 
His  father's  consecrated  tomb, 

His  children's  birth-place  too, 
His  "  hunting  grounds,"  his  well  loved  home — 

He  bids  them  all  adieu. 

VII. 
Lone,  exiled  remnant  of  a  race 

Once  happy  ,free  and  brave ; — 
In  all  this  beauteous  heritage 

He  can  but  have — a  grave  ! 

VIII. 
Behind  him  lie,  forever  lost, 

The  scenes  forever  dear ; 
Yet  this  sad  farewell  scarce  doth  cost 

His  stoic  soul  a  tear. 

IX. 

Before  him  lies  his  weary  way, 
On  toward  the  setting  sun : 


DIRGE    FOR    A    DEPARTING    RACE.      205 


His  hopes  are  fled,  his  home  is  left, 
His  pilgrimage  begun. 

X. 

Ay,  Nature,  gentle  mother,  mourn — 
Mourn  for  thy  hapless  child ; 

A  requiem  give  in  every  gale, 
A  tomb  in  every  wild. 

XI. 

Let  thy  fair  scenes,  where  once  he  dwelt, 

His  tragic  history  tell ; 
And  let  thy  voice,  in  varying  notes, 
His  funeral  anthem  swell. 


lEinier  SfcrtJ* 


THE  WINTEK  WREATH.* 


THE  AUTUMN  WIND. 

I. 

"  WHAT  says  the  autumn  wind  to  thee, 

Thou  merry-hearted  child? 
What  says  the  autumn  wind  to  thee, 

With  its  cadence  sad  and  wild  ?  " 

II. 
Then  a  flood  of  light,  like  that  which  runs 

On  a  fitful  summer  day, 
O'er  waving  fields  of  golden  grain, 

On  the  boy's  glad  face  did  play; 
And  happy  thoughts,  from  his  azure  eye 
Flashed  forth, like  stars  from  a  twilight  sky, 
As  he  paused  in  his  sport  to  make  reply — 

*Thc  poems  comprised  under  this  title  were  written  during  a  sea 
son  of  domestic  affliction.  This  will  account  to  the  reader  for  the 
melancholy  nature  of  their  subjects.  The  little  wintry  chaplet,  wo 
ven  in  the  chill  atmosphere  of  sorrow,  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of 
a  dear  child,  gone  from  earth,  but  not  lost  to  the  world  of  love. 


210  THE     AUTUMN    WIND. 


III. 

"What  says  the  autumn  wind  to  me? 

Oh,  it  singeth  a  merry  song ! 
A  song  of  the  breezy  hills  and  plains, 

Where  my  kite  soars  far  and  long ; 
It  tells  sweet  tales,  as  it  hurries  pabt, 

Of  the  waving  chestnut  tree, 
With  its  brown  nuts  falling  thick  and  fast — 

Enough  for  the  squirrel  and  me. 

It  whispers  too  of  ponds  and  streams 

That  will  soon  be  frozen  o'er; 
Where  I  shall  sing,  and  my  skates  will  ring 

As  they  skim  o'er  the  crystal  floor. 
Oh,  the  autumn  wind — I  love  it  well ! 

It  hath  many  a  pleasant  chime — 
And,  list ! — even  now  you  may  hear  it  tell 

Of  a  happier  season  drawing  near, 

The  happiest  one  of  all  the  year, 

The  merry  Christmas  time." 

IV. 
"What  says  the  autumn  wind  to  thee, 

Thou  mourner  sad  and  pale  ? 
What  says  the  autumn  wind  to  thee. 

With  its  deep  and  solemn  wail  ?' 


THE    AUTUMN    WIND.  211 


V. 

Then,  over  that  mourner's  furrowed  brow 

A  beam  of  memory  passed ; 
It  was  faint  and  cold  as  a  misty  light 

On  snow-veiled  landscapes  cast ; 
And  it  only  served,  like  the  feeble  ray 

Of  a  midnight  taper,  to  betray 

The  gloom  it  could  not  smile  away. 
Solemn  and  low,  as  a  spirit's  sigh, 
Was  the  tremulous  voice  that  made  reply- 

VI. 

"  What  says  the  autumn  wind  to  me  ? 

Oh,  it  speaks  in  saddest  tone — 
Like  a  ship-wrecked  soul  on  a  stormy  sea 

I  shudder  at  its  moan. 
It  tells  me  of  a  wintry  stream, 

With  a  dark  and  leafless  shore, 
Which  the  beauty  of  returning  spring 

Can  brighten,  never  more. 
It  whispers  tales  of  earth's  lone  vales, 

Where  sleep  the  early  dead, 
While  withered  leaves  fall  sadly  down 

On  each  cold,  silent  bed. 
It  breathes  a  dirge  for  summer  flowers 

That  perished  in  their  pride ; 


212  T  II  E    A  U  T  U  M  N    W  I  N  D. 


It  wails  o'er  sweet  unfolding  buds, 

That  in  their  promise  died. 
Oh,  the  autumn  wind ! — in  fear  and  pain 

I  list  its  mournful  chime, 
And  fain  would  hide  me  from  the  strain 

In  some  serener  clime. 
Methinks,  on  heaven's  bright  shore 

Where  spring  smiles  all  the  year, 

This  sound,  so  wild,  so  drear, 
Would  chill  the  heart  no  more." 


THE    BIRD    OF    PASSAGE. 

I. 

IT  lighted  on  our  shores  in  early  spring, 
A  wandering  voyager  from  a  radiant  clime ; 
It  came  in  days  of  cloud  and  storm,  to  bring 
Promise  of  summer  time. 

II. 

It  warbled  songs  the  sweetest  ever  heard; 
Songs  that  with  happy  tears  o'er-brimmed  the  eye — 
We  listened,  asking  "  Is  it  sprite  or  bird, 
Or  seraph  from  the  sky  ?  " 

III. 

A  winged  joy — a  shape  of  airy  grace — 
It  flitted  gayly  round  its  new-found  nest ; 
And  Earth,  uplifting  cloud-veils  from  her  face, 
Smiled  on  the  welcome  guest. 

IV. 

April's  moist  eyes,  in  many  a  laughing  ray, 
Made  rich  atonement  for  the  tearful  past ; 
And  winds,  that  long  had  piped  a  wintry  lay, 
Hushed  now  each  stormy  blast. 


214  THE   BIRD    OF    PASSAGE. 


V. 

The  slumbering  flowrcts,    hearing  'mid  their  dreams 
A  merry  call,  awoke — and,  robed  in  state, 
Came  smiling  forth  by  sunlit  hills  and  streams, 
To  greet  their  tuneful  mate. 

VI. 

How  sweet  it  was,  through  all  the  summer  hours, 
To  list  that  joyous  songster's  glad  refrain  ! 
Ah,  ne'er  before,  methinks,  did  earthly  bowers 
Echo  such  heaven-born  strain. 

VII. 

Our  hearts,  o'erflooded  by  a  tide  of  bliss, 
Beat  heavily  and  faint — a  shadowy  fear 
Whispered,  for  cold  and  changeful  clime  like  this, 
Such  notes  were  all  too  dear. 

VIII. 

With  fleetest  steps  the  dancing  hours  went  by : 
And  Summer,  like  a  dream  of  beauty,  fled. 
Then  came  pale  Autumn — tear-drops  in  her  eye, 
And  sorrow  in  her  tread. 

IX. 

The  skies  grew  dim — to  us  they  still  seemed  bright  : 
The  flowrets  drooped — we  wept  not  their  decay : 
Had  we  not  still  a  fountain  of  delight 

To  cheer  each  darkened  day? 


THE   BIRD    OF    PASSAGE.  215 


X. 

But  when  November's  chilling  winds  did  come, 
They  breathed  grim  desolation  o'er  the  land ; 
They  sent  our  wandering  minstrel  from  its  home, 
To  a  far  distant  strand. 

XL 

Then  hushed  were  notes  that  bade  all  hearts  rejoice, 
And  mute  each  haunt  so  musical  before; 
For  Echo,  missing  her  lost  playmate's  voice, 
Would  wake  to  joy  no  more. 

XII. 

Ah,  me  !  how  cheerless  was  the  winter  scene ! 
How  slowly  dragged  each  weary  day  along, 
Wanting  the  tender  joys  that  still  had  been 

Linked  to  that  summer  song. 

XIII. 

Yet  o'er  the  depths  of  this  "  divine  despair," 
Arose  a  light,  that,  like  a  rainbow,  spanned 
The  sea  of  grief — and  'neath  its  archway  fair 
We  saw  Hope,  smiling  stand. 

XIV. 

She  bade  us  still  each  wild  and  vain  regret; 
She  pointed  o'er  dark  waves,  to  tropic  bowers, 
Where  birds  of  passage  flew,  to  carol  yet 

Glad  songs  through  summer  hours. 


216  THE   BIRD   OF    PASSAGE. 


XV. 

;'Not  lost,"  she  said,  "nor  hushed  for  aye,  the  lay, 
Whose  loving  cadence  once  was  all  your  own; 
Still  doth  it  sound,  in  realms  of  brighter  day, 
With  a  diviner  tone. 

XVI. 

"  And  think,  when  here  dark  wintry  tempests  rise, 
How  sweet  to  know  they  cannot  reach  that  shore 
Where  dwells  your  lost  delight,  'neath  cloudless  skies 
Sheltered  for  ever  more." 


OUR    CHRISTMAS    MORN 

I. 

HEAVENT  robed  in  blue — earth  clad  in  snow! 
Each  seemed  a  festal  garb  to  wear, 
While  merry  bells,  in  tuneful  flow, 
Sent  gladness  thro'  the  frosty  air. 
Within  our  home  Peace  seemed  to  smile — 
Kindred  were  met,  the  feast  was  spread ; 
While  Love,  from  every  eye  and  lip, 
The  heart's  best  light  and  music  shed. 

II. 

Yet,  to  our  little  household  band, 
How  sadly  came  that  hallowed  morn  ! 
Since  last  we  hailed  the  welcome  day, 
What  joy  had  fled,  what  grief  was  born  ! 
One  Christmas  morn  so  deeply  bless'd, 
So  rich  we  could  not  ask  for  more, — 
Another — lo !  the  robber,  Death, 
Had  stolen  half  Life's  precious  store. 

III. 

We  sought  to  smile — we  sought  to  cheer 
Each  other's  stricken  hearts,  in  vain — 


218  OUR    CHRISTMAS    M  0  R  X. 


Love  could  not  hide  the  frequent  tear, 
JSor  veil  the  bosom's  throb  of  pain. 
Softly  we  woke  the  voice  of  song — 
The  trembling  notes  soon  died  away 
In  thrilling  memories  of  sweet  tones 
That  used  to  join  each  festive  lay. 

IV. 

Silent  we  gathered  to  the  board, 
So  merry  in  the  vanished  years — 
Alas,  we  missed  one  dear,  bright  face, 
And  all  our  feasting  turned  to  tears. 
"We  rose  and  sought  the  lighted  hearth- 
No  warmth  or  comfort  met  us  there ; 
The  lost  one's  little  vacant  seat 
Changed  our  mute  sorrow  to  despair. 

V. 

That  weary  day — it  went  at  last, 
As  each  long  day  of  misery  will ; 
But  all  the  fond  regrets  it  brought, 
Darken  the  world  of  memory  still. 
Oh,  ye,  whose  homes  and  hearts  are  bless'd 
With  all  your  loved  and  cherished  flowers, 
Pray,  pray  to  heaven  ye  ne'er  may  have 
So  sad  a  Christmas  Morn  as  ours. 


THOUGHTS    IX    WINTER. 

I. 

EARTH  vails  the  brightness  of  her  beauty  now. 
And  wears  a  robe,  dark  as  her  clouded  brow : 
A  childless  mother,  living  in  the  Past, 
With  buried  hopes  and  joys  too  sweet  to  last, 
Silent  and  tearful,  thro'  these  wintry  hours, 
She  mourns  her  lost — her  smiling  brood  of  flowers. 

II. 

They  all  have  fled — All  gone  to  dark  decay — 
Those  glorious  beings  of  the  summer  day ; 
Pure  were  their  lives,  and  sweet  their  latest  breath;- 
Like  sinless  children,  early  claimed  by  Death, 
Gently  they  passed  away.     By  hill  and  stream 
They  smile  no  more,  save  in  fond  memory's  dream. 

III. 

Well  may  the  Earth  look  sad — well  may  she  wear 
A  mourning  raiment  for  her  children  fair ; 
Well  may  her  birds,  so  tuneful  in  the  spring, 
Flit  songless  by  upon  a  joyless  wing ; 
Well  may  her  countless  rills  in  silence  glide 
By  the  low  graves,  where  their  sweet  playmates  died. 


THOUGHTS    IX    WINTER. 


IV. 

Yet  brief  will  be  pale  Sorrow's  gloomy  reign  ; 
Soon  Nature's  heart  will  throb  with  joy  again ; 
Soon  the  warm  sun  and  soft  caressing  wind, 
Kissing  to  life  each  slumbering  bud  they  find, 
Will  people  hills  and  plains  and  garden  bowers 
With  a  new  race  of  lovely,  smiling  flowers. 

V. 

Not  so  with  thee,  sad  heart — oh,  never  more 
Can  rolling  Time  thy  blissful  spring  restore  ! 
Often  shall  Earth's  fair  summers  come  and  go, 
Whilst  thou  must  still  but  wintry  seasons  know  ; 
Thy  perished  buds,  thy  dear  ones  in  the  tomb, 
No  breath  of  love  can  wake  to  life  and  bloom. 


THE    DAWN    OF    DAY. 


Is  this  the  dawn  of  day,  mother ,- 

Is  tins  the  dawn  of  day  ?" 
I  heard  a  voice  of  melody, 

In  lisping  accents  say. 
I  turned  towards  the  speaker, 

And  saw  a  little  child, 
Upon  whose  innocent,  young  brow 

Angelic  beauty  smiled. 

II. 

The  early  sunbeams,  playing 

Amid  her  golden  hair, 
Enwreathed  it  with  the  halo 

That  pictured  seraphs  wear. 
She  seemed,  herself,  a  symbol 

Of  Morning's  lovely  hour — 
Pure  as  its  sparkling  dew-drop, 

Fair  as.its  opening  flower. 

III. 

"  Is  this  the  dawn  of  day,  mother  ?' 
And  she  who  made  reply, 


THE    DAWN    OF    DAY. 


Gazed  first  upon  her  treasure, 

With  fond,  admiring  eye ; 
Yet  something' kin  to  sorrow 

Was  in  that  loving  gaze — 
The  mother's  pallid  cheek  foretold 

That  brief  might  be  her  days. 

IV. 

Perchance  this  thought  oppress'd  her ; 

Perchance  she  feared  to  leave 
Her  dear  one,  lonely,  in  a  world 

Where  every  heart  must  grieve ; 
For  her  voice  was  sad  and  solemn 

As  she  did  softly  say — 
"  With  THEE,  my  precious  little  one, 
"  It  is  the  dawn  of  day." 

V. 

When  Autumn  leaves  were  falling 

I  saw  that  child  again, 
But  then,  alas !  she  moaning  lay 

Upon  a  couch  of  pain — 
The  sad,  pale  mother,  paler  grown, 

Bent  ever  fondly  there ; 
Her  hands  employed  in  loving  tasks, 

Her  soul  engaged  in  prayer. 


THE     DAWN     OF     DAY.  223 


VI. 
Oh,  many  days  of  suffering, 

And  many  nights  of  dread, 
That  gentle  child  lay  tossing 

Upon  her  feverish  bed. 
Oft,  in  her  wild  delirium, 

Sweet,  thrilling  words  she'd  say ; 
And  once  she  softly  whispered 
"  Is  it  the  dawn  of  day  ?  " 

vir. 

The  watcher  shivered  at  these  words, 

And  felt  the  hour  was  nigh, 
When  never  more  a  joyful  dawn, 

For  her  would  light  the  sky. 
Oft  had  she  prayed  for  life  to  rear 

The  bud  so  fondly  nursed  ; 
And  now  the  Mighty  Reaper 

Would  take  that  sweet  bud  first. 

VIII. 
Too  soon  the  fatal  moment  came — 

The  tender  flower  lay  low, 
And  the  pale  mourner  o'er  it  breathed 

This  gentle  plaint  of  woe — 


THE     DAWN     OF    DAY. 


"  My  sainted  child  !  tho'  darkest  night 

Glooms  o'er  thy  mother's  way, 
Y"et — blissful  thought — thy  pangs  are  past — 

With  THEE  'tis  dawn  of  day.  " 


SOLITUDE. 


CALL  ye  it  solitude,  to  dwell  apart 

From  the  world's  busy  crowd  ?     It  is  not  so — 

That  fairy  realm,  the  kingdom  of  the  heart, 

Is  thronged  with  lovelier  shapes  than  those  that  glow 

With  youth  and  beauty,  in  the  festal  hall. 

Whene'er  from  Pleasure's  gilded  haunts  I  roam 

To  some  secluded  scene — soon,  at  my  call, 

A  host  of  airy  beings  round  me  come ; 

The  sweet  creations  of  the  poet's  brain, 

The  graceful  shapes  that  people  Fancy's  dream, 

All  smiling  come — they  speak  in  gentlest  strain, 

They  bid  my  thoughts  with  holiest  gladness  beam, 

'Til  my  rapt  spirit,  in  extatic  mood, 

Thrills  to  the  potent  charm  of  such  sweet  solitude. 


THE    WANDEKING    DOVE. 


I. 
A  DOVE  fluttered  in  at  a  window 

Widely  opened,  one  fair  summer  day 
And  gave  a  new  joy  to  two  children 

Who  were  busied  with  innocent  play. 
They  caught  and  caressed  the  poor  trembler ; 

They  called  it  by  names  sweet  and  dear; 
And  they  sought,  by  fond  tokens  of  kindness. 

To  quiet  its  heart-throbs  of  fear. 

II. 
Yet  ever  it  fluttered  and  panted, 

And  shrank  in  the  wildest  alarm, 
While  still  its  soft  eyes' timid  glances 

Seemed  asking  protection  from  harm. 
Then  a  cage  was  procured — large  and  airy — 

Finely  gilded,  and  furnished  with  care, 
And  the  little  ones  shouted  with  rapture 

When  the  stranger  was  domiciled  there. 

III. 
Oh,  never  before  was  a  wanderer 

So  welcomed,  so  watched,  so  caress'd ! 


THE     WANDERING     DOVE.  227 


Never  found  weary  bird  of  the  woodlands 
Such  sheltered  and  love-guarded  nest. 

Every  morning  those  two  happy  children 
Came  smiling,  like  Dawn's  rosy  hours, 

To  replenish  the  dove's  pretty  dwelling 
With  food,  with  fresh  water  and  flowers. 

IV. 
But  alas  !  all  their  gentle  endeavours 

Failed  to  render  captivity  sweet — 
The  prisoner,  like  many  before  him, 

Drooped  and  pined  in  his  gilded  retreat 
What  was  kindness,  or  care,  or  protection, 

Or  dainties  so  lovingly  given  ? 
"What  were  all,  to  a  bird  that  was  pining 

For  the  breeze  and  the  sunshine  of  heaven  ? 

V. 

Still  their  favourite  fretted  and  languished : 

Then  sad  grew  each  gentle  young  heart, 
And,  with  sorrow,  at  last  they  consented 

To  let  the  poor  captive  depart. 
Oh  !  dearly-loved,  innocent  children  ! 

They  had  ne'er  known  the  rude  touch  of  Care ; 
To  relinquish  a  treasure  so  valued, 

Was  a  grief  that  they  scarcely  could  bear. 


228  THE     WANDERING    DOVE. 


VI. 
With  fast-falling  tears  they  caressed  it, 

And  stroked  its  soft  plumes  o'er  and  o'er — 
Asking  often,  in  tremulous  accents, 

"  When  freed,  shall  we  see  it  no  more  ?  " 
A  moment  they  paused  at  the  window — 

Fondly  hoping,  e'en  then,  it  might  stay, 
But  the  instant  its  wings  were  unfettered 

It  spread  them,  and  floated  away. 

VII. 
Far  up,  over  tree-tops  and  dwellings, 

Far  up  to  the  shadowless  sky, 
With  a  wing  growing  stronger  and  stronger, 

It  soared  until  lost  to  the  eye ! 
Like  a  fair  morning  suddenly  clouded ; 

Like  a  sweet  dream  that  fades  with  the  night; 
Like  the  hush  of  glad  song  was  the  silence 

That  followed  the  wanderer's  flight. 

VIII. 
The  boy,  with  his  wild  earnest  glances, 

And  features  o'ershadowed  by  pain, 
Watched  it  long,  then  in  petulance  murmured 

"  I  want  it  to  come  back  again." 
But  his  fair  little  playmate  sighed  softly, 

And  her  sweet  face  more  beautiful  grew 


THE    WANDERING    DOVE.  229 


As  still  gazing  heavenward,  she  whispered, 
"  Oh,  could  I  but  fly  up  there  too  !  " 

IX. 

Then,  the  mother,  who  lingered  a-near  her 

And  heard  that  soft  wish  spoken  low, 
Looking  into  the  face  of  her  darling, 

Seemed  to  read  there  some  wild  dream  of  woe. 
What  shadow  of  coming  affliction 

Hud  suddenly  darkened  the  day  ? 
What  dread  voice,  prophetic  of  evil, 

Bade  her  haste  to  her  chamber  and  pray  ? 

X. 

There's  a  joy  near  akin  to  pale  sorrow ; 

There  are  hopes  only  fostered  by  tears ; 
There  are  some  of  earth's  treasures  we  cherish 

With  a  love  overshadowed  by  fears. 
Such  a  joy,  such  a  hope  felt  that  parent, 

Whenever  she  looked  on  the  fair 
And  delicate  child,  whose  soft  beauty 

Seemed  native  to  heaven's  pure  air. 

XL 

Ah  !  these  shadows  foreboded  the  tempest 
That  soon  on  that  bright  home  would  fall ! 

It  came — and  it  blighted  the  blossom 
Most  cherished,  most  precious  to  all. 


230  THE    WANDERING    DOVE 


No  tokens  of  tender  affection, 

No  sweet  bonds  of  holiest  love, 
Could  fetter  to  earth  the  bright  wanderer 

Who  had  strayed  from  some  pure  realm  above. 

XII. 
One  morn,  from  its  beautiful  temple, 

That  sinless  young  spirit  took  flight ; 
Like  the  dove  speeding  joyously  homeward, 

It  soared  up  to  regions  of  light. 
'Mid  a  hush  of  unspeakable  sorrow, 

There  rose  one  loud  murmur  of  pain ; 
The  brother,  bereft  of  his  playmate, 

Cried,  "  I  -want  her  to  come  back  again." 

XIII. 
Then,  another  bereaved  one  remembered 

The  soft  plaint  of  grief  she  had  heard, 
When  that  dear  one,  now  gone  to  the  angels, 

Had  mourned  o'er  the  flight  of  her  bird. 
Oh  !  forgive  the  wild,  passionate  yearning, 

The  anguish  she  could  not  subdue — 
As,  wistfully  searching  the  heavens, 

She  prayed,  "  Let  me  soar  up  there,  too." 


OUR    BELOVED     ONE. 


I. 

SHE  slumbers  on  the  hill-side 

Where  oft  she  played  of  yore ; 
She  slumbers  on  the  hill-side 

Where  she  never  will  play  more. 
The  wild  flower  blooms  as  brightly 

On  the  turf,  that  shrouds  her  breast, 
As  erst  it  bloomed,  when  lightly 

That  mossy  turf  she  prest. 

II. 

The  robin  singeth  daily 

'Mid  boughs  that  o'er  her  wave, 
And  the  sunshine  danceth  gaily 

Upon  her  early  grave. 
The  beautiful  bright  river 

Goes  singing  on  its  way. 
And  soothes  her  slumbers  ever, 

As  once  it  cheered  her  play. 

III. 

Ofttimes  our  footsteps  wander 
By  that  hill-side  green  and  fair 


232  OUR    BELOVED     ONE. 


While  our  loving  hearts  still  ponder 
On  the  lost  one  sleeping  there ; 

'Til  busy  Fancy  dreameth 
A  dream  divinely  dear, 

And  the  beloved  one  seemeth 
To  come  and  linger  near. 

IV. 

Then  mystic  thoughts  brood  o'er  us  : 

We  see  a  shadowy  hand 
Pointing  the  way  before  us 

To  a  happy  Eden-land. 
Then  low,  soft  music,  stealing 

On  the  hush'd  and  breathless  air, 
Awakes  the  faith,  the  feeling 

That  angels  hover  there. 

V. 
Oh  beautiful,  beloved  one  ! 

Tho'  thou  art  gone  to  rest ; 
Though  all  too  soon  thou  left  us, 

Thou  bright  and  peerless  guest ! 
Yet  we  have  not  wholly  lost  thee ; 

Still,  from  thy  grave's  low  shrine, 
There  comes  a  voice  whose  teaching 

Is  fraught  with  hope  divine. 


THE     MOTHER'S     DREAM. 


I. 

IN  a  soft  and  sheltered  valley, 
One  of  England's  loveliest  valleys, 
By  the  marge  of  winding  river, 

Rose  a  mansion  proudly  fair. 
Stately  trees  were  waving  near  it; 
Sweetest  flowers  were  blooming  round  it; 
Art  and  Nature  vied  to  lavish 

All  their  rich  adornments  there. 

II. 

Oh,  to  see  its  lofty  turrets 
Gleaming  thro'  the  soft  green  foliage  ! 
And  to  mark  its  smiling  casements 

Flashing  back  the  sunbeams'  glow  1 
And  to  list  the  sounds  of  gladness — 
Song  of  birds,  and  laugh  of  fountains, 
Thrilling  all  the  air  with  music, 

Who  could  deem  it  home  of  woe  ? 

III. 

Yet,  like  smiling  face  that  veileth 
Wounded  spirit's  secret  anguish, 


234  THE     MOTHER'S     DREAM. 


Bloom  and  beauty  'round  that  mansion 

Only  veiled  deep  gloom  within. 
There,  in  hopeless  sorrow  pining, 
Sat  a  pale  and  stricken  woman, 
Weeping,  ever — weeping  sorely — • 

Weeping  'til  her  tears  were  sin. 

IV. 

She  had  once  a  gentle  daughter ; 

Only  one — a  child  so  lovely 

That  she  won  all  hearts  to  worship — 

Happy  mother  most  of  all. 
Sparkling  gem  of  light  and  beauty  : 
Sweetest  fount  of  love  and  rapture, 
She,  the  little  dancing  fairy — 

How  she  graced  that  grand  old  hall  I 

V. 

Brighter  than  the  sportive  sunbeams; 
Fairer  far  than  opening  roses ; 
Happier  e'en  than  life  of  song-birds 

Seemed  her  sinless  sojourn  there. 
But,  in  all  her  budding  beauty, 
Went  the  being  loved  so  wildly, 
Went  away  to  dwell  in  Eden — 

Clime  most  fit  for  flower  so  fair. 


THE     MOTHER'S     DREAM.  235 


VI. 

Then  arose  a  dirge  of  sorrow — 
Master,  servant,  guest  and  neighbor, 
E'en  the  dumb  domestic  creatures 

Seemed  to  wail  the  dear  one  gone. 
Calmer  was  the  mother's  weeping; 
Meeker,  gentler  her  sad  'plaining, 
Yet,  when  other  griefs  were  ended, 

Hers  still  breathed  its  ceaseless  moan. 

VII. 

In  a  lone  and  gloomy  chamber, 
Closed  against  the  cheerful  sunbeams, 
Sat  the  mourner,  mute  and  pallid, 

Shedding  ever  drops  of  woe. 
Like  a  fount  from  spring  unfailing ; 
Like  a  torrent  never  pausing; 
Like  the  restless  surge  of  ocean 

Seemed  that  bitter  tide  to  flow. 

VIII. 

Mornings  brightened — evenings  faded — 
Smiled  fair  Spring  and  laughed  gay  Summer — 
Yet  the  changing  charms  of  Nature 

Changed  not  Sorrow's  gloomy  hue. 


236  THE     MOTHER'S    DREAM. 


Still  unheard  were  words  of  comfort ; 
Still  unheeded  friends  and  household; 
Daily  duties  all  forgotten — 

Nightly  prayers  forgotten  too. 

IX. 

'Mid  this  deep  and  erring  sorrow 
Came,  one  eve  in  troubled  slumber, 
Dream  or  vision  that  beguiled  her 

From  the  spell  of  wild  Despair. 
She  beheld  the  courts  of  heaven 
Radiant  with  little  children, 
Happy,  smiling,  glorious  beings — 

All,  like  angels,  purely  fair. 

X. 

Each  one  bore  a  lamp,  whose  gleaming 
Shed  a  flood  of  light  celestial 
On  the  flower-clad  paths  of  Eden, 

Trod  by  this  seraphic  throng. 
Each  soft  eye  was  full  of  gladness ; 
Each  fair  brow  was  crowned  with  glory  ; 
Each  young  lip  gave  voice  to  rapture 

In  a  tide  of  thrilling  song. 

XI. 

While  the  dreamer  gazed  upon  them, 
Watching  for  her  own  lost  darling, 


THE     MOTHER'S     DREAM.  237 


Changed  at  once  the  beauteous  vision  ; 

Rose  at  once  a  piteous  cry. 
To  that  cry  her  soul  responded — 
Looking  thro'  the  gathering  shadows 
To  a  clouded  sphere,  and  lonely, 

There,  her  dear  one  met  her  eye. 

XII. 

Quick  she  cried,  in  wild  amazement, 

(;  Why — oh,  why,  my  child,  my  blessed  one, 

Dost  thou  dwell  in  outer  darkness, 

Far  from  yon  angelic  band  ?" 
Then  a  voice,  in  mournful  cadence, 
Said,  "  Oh  mother,  thou  dost  keep  me, 
With  thy  ceaseless,  ceaseless  weeping, 

From  the  joys  of  spirit  land." 

XIII. 

"  This  pure  lamp  which  is  to  guide  ine 
From  my  prison,  dark  and  lonely, 
I  have  lighted  and  relighted, 

But  thy  tears  still  quench  its  ray. 
Never,  to  my  home  celestial 
Can  I  go  without  this  beacon — 
Dearest  mother,  as  you  love  me, 

Weep  no  more,  but  trust  and  pray  " 


238  THE     MOTHER'S     DREAM. 


XIV. 

Up,  when  Morn  dispelled  her  slumber, 
Hose  that  pale  and  awe-struck  woman, 
Oped  her  casement  to  the  sunshine, — 

Met  its  glance  with  answering  eye 
Wondrous  change  !  and  blessed  as  wondrous— 
Never  more  the  mourner  murmured  ; 
Never  more,  on  those  pale  features, 

Mortal  glance  did  tear-drop  spy. 

XV. 

Now,  the  harmonies  of  Nature, 
And  the  scenes  of  tranquil  beauty- 
Lavished  'round  that  proud  old  mansion, 

Tell  deceitful  tales  no  more. 
Now,  beneath  those  stately  turrets 
Dwells  a  meek  and  chastened  spirit — 
Hope  and  trusting  faith  in  heaven 

Cheer  the  home  so  dark  before. 


ADDRESS    TO    TIME. 


I. 

Oir,  TIME  !  to  thco  I  sing ! 
'Tis  said  that  thou  canst  bring 
Balm,  on  thy  healing  wing, 
For  every  ill  we  know, — 
For  all  the  tears  that  flow 
From  founts  of  human  woe. 

II. 

If  so — then  speed  away  ! 
Let  the  young  Hours  decay ; 
Let  Night  give  place  to  day ; 
Let  weeks  and  months  go  by; 
Let  years  be  born  and  die, 
So  that  Grief  too  may  fly .' 

III. 

I  care  not,  envious  wight, 
If  record  of  your  flight 
Upon  my  brow  you  write. — 
Change  these  dark  locks  to  snow; 
Make  these  quick  footsteps  slow, 
And  bow  'this  proud  form  low. 


240  ADDRESS     TO     TIME. 


IV. 

Take  youth's  most  glorious  dower— 
The  bloom,  the  grace,  the  power 
That  marked  Life's  morning  hour. 
Take  all  that's  rich  and  fair, 
But,  with  this  precious  share, 
Take  also  dark  Despair. 

V. 

Oh !  soothe  this  wild  regret ! 
Oh  !  dry  the  tears  that  yet 
My  sleepless  pillow  wet ! 
Lift  the  bruised  heart  that  Fate 
Bows  to  such  lowly  state ; 
Take  off  this  weary  weight. 

VI. 

Thou  bringest  to  the  flower 
That's  crushed  by  tempest's  power, 
Or  chilled  in  wintry  hour, 
The  sunshine  and  the  dew 
That  will  its  bloom  renew ; 
Bring  comfort  to  me  too. 

VII. 

Away  then,  Time,  away  ! 
That  I  may  learn  to  say, 


ADDRESS    TO     TIME.  241 


In  some  far  future  day, 

When  Grief's  wild  course  is  run, 

And  better  days  begun, 

"  Father— Thy  will  be  done." 


THE    MOURNER. 


A  WOMAN,  young  and  fair,  tho'  pale  witn  woe, 

Looked  forth,  at  sunset  hour, 

From  a  proud  mansion's  tower  :  — 

Bright  was  the  scene  that  met  her  eye  below, 

For  wood  and  vale  and  stream 

Were  bathed  in  such  a  beam 

As  fairy  landscapes  wear,  in  some  most  happy  dream. 

II. 

Yet  ever,  as  she  gazed,  more  sad  and  pale 
The  gentle  watcher  grew  — 
Her  eyes  of  azure  hue, 
O'er-filled  with  Sorrow's  dew, 
Drooped  like  twin  violets  in  a  flooded  vale; 
And  her  low  voice,  sad  as  the  wind-harp's  wan, 
Rose  in  melodious  tone  , 
As  sitting  there,  alone, 
She  breathed  to  the  hushed  air  this  soft  and  plaintive  moan. 

III. 

'  Ye  crystal  waves,  that  leap  in  frolic  play, 
How  tuneful  is  your  flow  ' 
How  merrily  ye  go, 


THE    MOURNER.  243 


Speeding  along  upon  your  flower-clad  way ! 

Oh,  gladsome  things,  delay  ! 

One  moment  pause,  or  stay — 

Perchance  my  soul  may  glide 

Off,  on  your  rapid  tide, 

To  that  unfading  shore  where  endless  joys  abide. 

IV. 

"  Ye  soaring  birds — embodied  shapes  of  bliss ! 

Lend  me  your  tireless  pinions, 

That  I,  thro'  Air's  dominions, 

May  soar  away  to  brighter  realms  than  this. 

Here,  in  this  chilling  clime, 

Flowers  perish  ere  their  prime ; 

Here  countless  tears  are  shed ; 

Here  Hope's  last  smile  hath  fled; 

And  here,  alas,  Love's  dream  dies  in  the  grave's  dark  bed. 

V. 

"  Ye  floating  clouds,  that  thro'  yon  fields  of  space, 

Sail  onward,  fast  and  free 

As  ships  o'er  wind-swept  sea, 

Can  ye  not  list  to  me? 

Oh,  airy  shapes  of  grace  ! 

Winged  voyagers  of  the  air  ! 

Let  me  your  wanderings  share — 

Let  me  be  wafted,  on  your  buoyant  forms, 


244  THE     MOURNER. 


Far  upward,  o'er  this  region  of  wild  storms; — 

My  pining  soul  would  fain 

Fly  from  this  world  of  pain, 

This  battle-field  of  Life,  where  all  Life's  joys  lie  slain." 

VI. 

The  mourner  ceased  her  wail — while  cloud,  and  wave, 

And  soaring  bird  swept  by, 

Unmindful  of  the  cry 

That  sorrowing  spirit  gave. 

But  Nature,  kindly  mother,  did  not  steel 

Her  ear  against  that  passionate  appeal; 

Gently  she  took  the  grieved  one  to  her  breast, 

Gently  she  hushed  that  suffering  heart  to  rest; — 

And,  ere  young  smiling  Day 

Kissed  Night's  soft  tears  away, 

On  rushing  wave,  or  cloud,  or  song  bird's  strain 

That  unchained  spirit  floated  off,  to  be 

Forever  glad  and  free, 

Forever  more  untouched  by  earth's  wild  pain. 


TO    LILLIE    IN    HEAVEN. 

I. 

LILLIE,  my  lost  delight !  my  angel  child ! 
I  know  thou  art  forever  far  removed 
From  this,  thine  earthly  home — and  yet,  beloved, 
Ofttimes  amid  my  tears  and  murmurings  wild, 
I  seem  to  feel  thy  gentle  presence  near, 

And  thy  soft  voice  to  hear. 

II. 

Ah !  would  this  were  no  dream !  for  still  I  pine, 
With  a  fond  yearning  that  is  one  long  prayer, 
For  the  s\veet  eyes  that  even  here  did  wear 
A  look  of  heaven — a  loveliness  divine. 
Methinks,  if  I  could  see  their  light  once  more, 

It  would  my  peace  restore. 

III. 

I  sit  alone,  and  muse,  at  eventide, 
Upon  ouch  feature  of  thy  fair  young  face, 
Upon  thy  winning  wiles,  thy  sportive  grace  ; 
'Til  Fancy  whispers  thou  art  at  my  side — 
Trembling,  I  turn  a  wistful  gaze,  but  meet 

Only  thy  vacant  seat. 


246  TO     LILLIE. 


IV. 

Alas  !  and  shall  I  never  more  behold 

The  innocent  brow,  the  glad  and  sunny  smile, 

The  soft  blue  eyes,  whose  glance  could  care  beguile  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  thy  bounding  form  enfold, 

Nor  feel  the  touch  of  thy  caressing  hands, 

Riveting  Love's  sweet  bands  ; 

V. 

Oh,  sainted  Shade !  the  tender  links  that  bind 
My  spirit  still  to  thine,  what  lip  can  count  ? — 
As  well  compute  the  whisperings  of  the  wind, 
Or  number  drops  that  swell  the  Sea's  deep  fount. 
"With  all  I  think  or  feel,  or  see  or  hear, 

Is  woven  thy  memory  dear. 

VI. 

And  all  things  wake  my  tears — the  budding  flowers, 
So  like  to  thee — Morning  and  parting  Day, 
And  low-voiced  winds,  that  seem  thy  name  to  say ; 
Song  birds,  and  children  in  their  sportive  hours, 
And,  most  of  all,  the  throbbing  stars  that  shine 

Up,  near  thy  home  divine. 

VII. 

Thou  must  be  far  from  earth — far  from  its  pain 
And  weariness  and  woe; — yet,  darling  child, 


TO     L  I  L  L  I E  247 


If  so  tliou  art,  why  comes  so  oft  this  wild 
Sweet  thrill  that  speaks  thee  near  again? 
Is  it  a  whisper  from  thyself? — a  token, 

By  thy  dear  spirit  spoken, 

VIII. 

To  comfort  and  console  ?     Ah,  if  it  be  ! 
Welcome,  thou  airy  messenger  of  Love ; 
Welcome,  dear  herald  from  the  court  above ; 
Speak  to  me  still — and  if  I  may  not  SEE 
The  viewless  shape,  the  angel  form  so  dear, 

Still  let  me  FEEL  it  near. 

IX. 

I  would  not  ask  too  much — this  yearning  heart, 
Though  by  its  deep,  deep  loss  so  pained  and  riven, 
Seeks  not  to  pluck  its  treasure  back  from  heaven. — 
No,  dear  one,  no !     Secure  and  safe  thou  art, 
Safe  from  all  sorrow,  in  that  "  better  land," 
Amid  the  angel  band. 

X. 

Yet,  best  beloved  !  if  thou  canst  leave  awhile 
The  realms  of  bliss — oh,  come,  in  visions  bright, 
In  dreams  and  airy  fancies  of  the  night, 
Come,  cheer  my  darkened  spirit  with  thy  smile ; 


248  TOLILLIE. 


Methinks  all  sin,  all  doubt,  all  woe  would  fly 

Whilst  thou  wert  hovrermg  nigh. 

XL 

I  was  thy  guide,  thy  teacher  here,  dear  child ! 
Now  be  thou  mine— and,  with  thy  seraph-eyes,      . 
Keep  watch  o'er  this  sad  heart — Oh,  make  it  wise 
And  patient — hush  its  'plainings  wild ; 
And,  most  of  all,  instruct  it  how  to  be 

Worthy  of  heaven  and  thee 


WORDS    OF    CHEER. 

'T  WAS  a  fair  morn  in  spring — The  warm  south  wind 

Breathed  its  caressing  whispers  low  and  sweet 

As  Love's  first  tremulous  sighs.     The  cloudless  sun 

Scattered  a  shower  of  golden  favors  down 

On  earthly  homes,  giving,  alike  to  all, 

Such  liberal  share,  that  Poverty's  low  shed, 

Like  Wealth's  fair  dome  was  mantled  o'er  with  beauty, 

Slowly,  along  the  city's  crowded  ways, 

I  musing  strayed,  and  marked  the  laborer  pass 

With  cheerful  footstep  to  his  daily  toil; 

Saw  the  pale  student  issue  from  his  home, 

Languid  and  worn,  yet  winning  as  he  went 

New  life  and  hope  and  joy ;  heard  the  soft  tones 

Of  merry-hearted  children,  as  they  sang, 

Like  wakening  birds,  loud  songs  to  greet  the  day. 

How  sweet,  to  one  a- weary  of  sad  thoughts, 

Was  the  glad  influence  of  that  April  morn ! 

The  viewless  Spirit  of  Delight  which  floats 

Upon  the  breath  of  Spring  was  busy  then ; 

Her  gentle  whisperings  lured  to  pleasant  scenes. 

To  far-off  glens,  where,  from  the  lowly  soil, 

Bright  flowers,  like  hope  and  faith  in  darkened  hearts, 

Were  springing  to  the  light. — Methought  the  voice 

Of  that  sweet  Spirit  shaped  itself  to  words, 


250  WORDS    OF    CHEER. 


And  softly  sang,  to  every  child  of  Grief, 
Consoling  words  like  these — 

I. 

Look  up,  oh,  tear-dimmed  eye ! 
Look  up  and  weep  no  more ; 
Ever  yon  sunlit  sky 
Bendeth  this  glad  earth  o'er : 
Tho'  storm-clouds  intervene 
And  shadows  darkly  fall, 
Beyond,  still  shines  serene 
The  light  that  shines  for  all. 

II. 

Smile,  sorrow-breathing  lip  ! 
Smile  off  the  frown  of  Care — 
Come,  sad  one,  forth,  and  sip 
Heaven's  joy-inspiring  air : 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  Love 
It  floats  o'er  hill  and  plain  ; 
Come,  let  its  sweetness  prove 
A  balm  to  soothe  thy  pain. 

III. 

Hope,  oh,  repining  heart ! 
Hope  on.  thro'  good  and  ill — 
Nature  acts  well  her  part, 
And  cheers  her  children  still. 


WORDS    OF    CHEER.  2o  1 


Her  bright  and  starry  lore, 
Writ  in  yon  page  above, 
Reveals  an  endless  store 
Of  goodness  and  of  love. 

IV. 

The  frailest  flower  of  earth 
Is  nursed  by  sun  and  shower  7 
The  man  of  lowliest  birth 
Claims  still  a  princely  dower— 
For  him  the  star-beams  shine ; 
For  him  the  sweet  dews  fall — 
Then,  mourner,  why  repine, 
Since  Heaven  is  kind  to  all  ? 


Jfairp  Jieardj. 


THE     FAIRY'S     SEARCH. 


I. 
THE  fragrant  shade  of  a  rose-clad  bower 

Was  a  Fairy's  chosen  home; 
There  she  gaily  spent  the  summer  hour 

With  never  a  wish  to  roam. 
Her  sweet  employ  was  to  watch  with  care 

Each  beautiful  bud  unfolding  there, 
And  to  guard,  from  every  blighting  spell, 

The  delicate  blossoms  loved  so  well. 
Her  gentle  presence  was  a  charm    4 

That  banished  every  power  of  harm ; 
No  wandering  footstep  dare  intrude 

To  mar  that  pleasant  solitude  ; 
No  mortal  hand  might  pluck  a  flower 
Whose  beauty  graced  that  magic  bower ; 

No  evil  influence  could  appear 

While  the  fair  guardian  lingered  near. 

II. 

It  chanced,  too  soon,  a  merry  band 

Of  sister  fairies,  hand  in  hand, 

Came  dancing  to  that  perfumed  grove, 
And  lured  its  gentle  queen  to  rove 

Far  off  to  the  banks  of  a  silvery  stream, 


256  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


To  revel  and  sport  'neath  the  moon's  bright  beam. 
'T  was  such  an  eve  as  fairies  love — 
All  cloudless  smiled  the  heaven  above; 
And  wooing  zephyrs  wandered  by 
With  the  witching  tone  of  a  lover's  sigh, 
Or  paused  awhile,  in  their  wayward  flight, 

To  kiss  some  rose  of  richest  bloom, 
Which  received  the  caress  in  mute  delight, 

O         / 

Then  paid  it  back  in  a  breath  of  perfume. 
The  minstrel  night-bird's  plaintive  song 

So  sweetly  stole  o'er  dewy  plains, 
That  hidden  Echo,  listening  long, 

Learned  to  repeat  the  tender  strains. 
So  calm  the  sleeping  waters  lay, 

So  true  they  mirrored  back  the  glow 
Of  sky,  and  moon,  and  starry  ray, 

There  seemed  another  heaven  below, 
As  pure,  as  fair,  as  full  of  love 

As  the  blue,  boundless  heaven  above. 

III. 

'Mid  scene  thus  bright,  the  sportive  Fay 
Forgot  her  treasures  far  away, 

And  lingered  late,  and  listened  long 

To  Pleasure's  soft  beguiling  song; 
Listened  until  its  cadence  stole 


THE    FAIRY'S     SEARCH.  257 


Like  witchery  o'er  the  charmed  soul, 

And  lulled,  within  her  guileless  breast, 

Each  care,  each  fear,  to  transient  rest. 
She  woke  as  dreamers  ofttimes  wake 

From  some  dear  vision  of  delight, 
When  Morn's  intrusive  footsteps  break 

The  airy  structures  reared  at  night. 
With  sad  forebodings  for  her  bower, 
Deserted  since  the  twilight  hour, 
She  left  the  fairies'  magic  ring, 
And,  like  a  bird  on  rapid  wing 
Flew  fast  away.    Yet,  Morn's  bright  eye 
Flashed  glory  o'er  the  eastern  sky^ 

Ere  she  regained  her  home.  Ah,  then, 
How  sadly  changed  that  well-loved  scene  - 
Et  seemed  all  desolate  and  lone 

As  some  deserted  garden-bound, 
Where  autumn  winds,  in  mournful  tone, 
Wail  over  withered  leaflets,  strown 

In  darkest  ruin  round. 
Some  daring  hand  had  stripp'd  the  bower, 
And  borne  away  each  beauteous  flower : — 

Far  off,  amid  the  busy  crowd 
Of  a  thronged  city,  now  they  smiled ; 

And  lent  new  pleasure  to  the  proud, 

Or  solaced  Sorrow's  child. 
17 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


IV. 

As  storm-clouds  pass  o'er  summer  skies, 
Dimming  their  soft  and  lovely  dyes, 
So  passed  the  gloomy  shade  of  woe 
Athwart  the  Fairy's  radiant  brow, 
The  while  she  gazed,  in  mute  despair. 
Around  the  dwelling,  once  so  fair. 
Brief  time  she  mused,  brief  time  she  mourned 
Upon  the  wreck  and  ruin  near  her, 

For  soon,  like  dawning  light,  returned 
Hope's  gentle  smile  to  cheer  her ; 
And,  lured  by  that  beguiling  ray, 
Her  fancy  wandered  far  away, 
To  show  her  many  a  distant  scene 
Graced  by  the  flowers  that  once  had  been 

Her  joy  and  pride.     Could  she  not  rove 
To  those  far  scenes,  and  there  regain 

The  objects  of  her  tender  love  ? 
Quick,  with  this  thought,  she  plumed  her  wing, 

And,  like  a  rosy  cloud  of  even 
Floating  upon  the  breath  of  Spring, 

Lightly  uprose  to  the  bright  heaven, 
And  soared  away.     Onward  she  flew, 
O'er  hill  and  vale  and  streamlet  blue; 
Nor  paused  until  she  spied  afar, 
Soft  gleaming  thro'  the  lucid  air, 
The  city's  towers  and  temples  fair. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  259 


Gladly  she  hailed  the  welcome  sight, 
Gladly  she  stayed  her  rapid  flight, 
And  rested  on  the  stately  height 

Of  a  proud  dome,  from  whence  her  eye 

Could  new  and  wondrous  scenes  descry. 
Within  the  narrow  street  below, 
What  crowds  are  hurrying  to  and  fro! 

Ever  a  vast  and  restless  throng, 

Like  surging  torrent  sweeps  along. — 
Old  Age,  with  furrowed  brow,  and  eye 

L>im  with  the  shadowy  mist  of  Time; 
Youth,  radiant  as  the  cloudless  sky 

Of  summer  in  its  prime  ; 
And  Childhood,  beautiful  and  gay 
As  blossoms  in  the  morning  ray, 

All  mingle  in,  that  rushing  stream ; 

All  pass  like  shapes  that  haunt  a  dream. 

V. 

And  mark,  where  comes  a  happy  band 
Of  youthful  beings,  hand  in  hand  : 

Their  forms  are  robed  in  raiment  bright ; 

Their  brows  are  radiant  with  delight; 
Their  footsteps  move  to  joyous  measure; 
Their  hearts  leap  up  to  notes  of  pleasure. 


260  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


So  gay  their  smiles,  so  pure  their  mirth, 

They  seem  not  children  of  this  earth, 
But  brighter,  lovelier  spirits,  come 
From  some  far-off,  celestial  home, 

Some  realm  •where  Rapture  reigns  supreme 

And  life  is  all  one  happy  dream. 
Ah  !     Ever  thus  Youth's  fairy  land 

Appears  a  pure  and  holy  clime, 
Secure  from  Care  or  Sorrow's  hand, 

Secure  from  all  dark  powers,  save  Time. 

VI. 

Beside  a  temple  vast  and  high, 

Whose  spire  points  upward  to  the  sky, 
The  gay  ones  pause.     Each  smiling  brow 
Grows  grave  with  Thought's  calm  shadow  now. 

With  footsteps  slow,  with  reverent  air 

They  seek  the  shrine  of  praise  and  prayer. 
Soon  by  the  sacred  altar  stand 

A  happy  youth  and  blushing  maid, — 
As  eye  meets  eye,  and  hand  clasps  hand, 

And  Love's  sweet  radiance  is  portrayed 
On  either  brow  ;  they  seem,  by  heaven — 
Whose  smiles  are  to  their  future  given — 

Designed  in  storm  or  sunny  weather, 

To  tread  life's  devious  path  together. 


THE  FAIRY'S  SEARCH.      261 


VII. 

Fair  is  the  bride — Youth's  holy  charm 
Lends  all  its  witchery  to  her  form ; 

And  Beauty's  deepest  spell  is  seen 

In  downcast  eye,  and  modest  mien. 
A  graceful  robe  of  stainless  white 
Falls  round  her,  as  the  moon's  soft  light 
Falls  over  earth  in  cloudless  night ; 

A  floating  veil  of  silvery  hue, 

Whose  folds  her  brow  looks  lovelier  through, 
Hangs,  like  the  mist  on  mountain  side, 
And  heightens  charms  'twas  meant  to  hide. 

White  roses  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Bedeck  her  bosom's  snowy  vest, 

And  borrow  loveliness  anew 
From  their  sweet  place  of  rest. 

VIII. 
The  vows  are  said — the  twain  are  one — 

The  bridal  band  has  turned  away, 
Like  some  bright  dream,  when  sleep  is  gone, 

Fades  now  the  vision  gay. 
The  Fairy,  who  with  strange  delight 
Had  viewed  that  sok-nin  nuptial  rite, 

And  marked,  with  azure  eye  suffused, 

Her  well-known  flowers,  thus  softly  mused — 


262  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


"  How  lovingly  they  seemed  to  rest 
"  Upon  that  maiden's  sinless  breast ! 

"What  hand  could  take  them  thence?     Ah,  there, 

"  More  bright  than  in  my  bower  they  were — 
"  Methought  they  looked  as  born  to  grace 
"  That  beauteous  form  and  blooming  face. 

"  'Twas  well  to  deck  thee,  gentle  bride, 

"  With  my  sweet  roses — thus  allied 
"To  youth,  to  innocence  and  worth, 
"  They  seemed  the  holiest  gifts  of  earth ; 

"  Offerings  most  pure  and  most  divine, 

"  For  Love  to  lay  on  Beauty's  shrine." 

IX. 

These  gentle  thoughts,  in  gentlest  strain 
The  fairy  spake,  then  soared  again ; 

And  flew  o'er  many  a  narrow  street 
Where  Morning's  smile  so  dimly  fell, 

Its  cheering  light  could  scarcely  greet 
The  pallid  beings  doomed  to  dwell 

In  changeless  darkness  there. — Ah !  they 

Who  joyfully  hail  each  new-born  day 
From  some  sweet  home  on  hill  or  plain, 
How  can  they  know  the  weary  paiu, 

The  pining  thoughts  of  those  whose  life 

Is  passed  'mid  ceaseless  care  and  strife  ? 
Who  toil,  perchance,  from  morn  'til  ni^ht, 


THE     FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  2G3 


In  cheerless  shops  or  gloomy  lanes,  • 
Scarce  knowing  whether  summer  light 

Or  winter  darkness  reigns. 
They  ne'er  can  feel  the  pulse  and  heart 
To  quick  and  healthful  music  start 

In  Nature's  genial  hour  ; 
They  ne'er  can  feel  Spring's  balmy  air 
Float  round  them,  with  its  perfume  rare, 

Waking  new  life  and  power : 
To  them  the  ever  varying  year, 

Whose  changeful  beauties  so  beguile 
More  favored  eyes,  is  still  as  drear 

As  human  face  without  a  smile. 

X. 

In  one  of  those  o'crshadowed  homes, 
Where  gleam  of  beauty  rarely  comes, 
Behold  a  cluster,  fresh  and  fair, 
Of  summer  roses — Smiling  there, 
Within  that  melancholy  room, 
They  seem  its  darkness  to  illume; 

Their  beauty  lends  the  cheerless  place 
A  tender  charm— a  softening  grace. 
And  One,  with  pale  and  thoughtful  brow, 
Is  bending  fondly  o'er  them  now. 

He  drinks  their  sweetness,  e'er  he  turns 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


To  trace  his  thoughts  upon  the  page — 

His  cheek  is  flushed,  his  deep  eye  burns 
With  a  most  pure  and  holy  beam, 
As  if  his  heart  held  happiest  dream. 

What  radiant  visions  so  engage 
His  musing  spirit?     What  fond  spell 
Lurks  in  the  tales  those  blossoms  tell  ? 

Ah !  flowers,  to  him,  are  like  the  chime 
Of  his  own  native  melodies  » 

To  wanderer  in  a  foreign  clime ; 
They  image  to  his  soul  the  light 

Of  lovely  scenes  afar, 
Truly  as  waters  calm  and  bright 

Reflect  the  twilight  star. 

Though  voiceless,  for  his  ear  they  have 
A  language  all  their  own  ; 

And  as  the  shell  from  Ocean's  cave, 
Still  murmurs  in  melodious  tone 

Of  its  far-distant  home, 
So,  eloquently  whisper  they 
Of  their  bright  birth-place  far  away. 

No  marvel,  then,  the  poet  loves 
These  "children  of  the  sun  and  shower;" 

No  marvel  their  sweet  presence  moves 
His  spirit  with  resistless  power. 

And  who  that  marked  the  genial  flame 


THE    FAIRVS    SEARCH. 


Thus  kindled  in  his  eye, 

Could  mar  his  dream,  or  seek  to  claim 

Those  flowers  from  such  proud  destiny  ? 

XI. 
"  No  !  ever  must  my  bower  remain 

"  Without  a  rose  to  blossom  near, 
"  Ere  I  can  wreathe  it  o'er  again 

"  With  treasures  gathered  here. 
"  Let  the  young  minstrel's  loving  gaze 

"Rest  on  their  beauties  long  ; 
"  Though  lowly,  they  perchance,  may  raise 

"  High  thoughts  for  tuneful  song; 
"  And  though  so  perishable,  still 

"  They  may  inspire  a  lay, 
"  Whose  melody  the  world  shall  thrill 

"In  a  far  future  day. 
"  Ay  !  let  the  priest  of  Nature  keep 
"  Her  offspring  fair — for  it  is  meet 

"  Their  incense-breath  should  round  him  float, 
"  And  mingle  with  the  anthems  sweet 

••  Which  from  his  soul's  pure  altar  rise, 

"  Like  grateful  offerings  to  the  skies." 

XII. 

Murmuring  these  words,  the  wanderer  flew 
From  the  Bard's  dwelling,  to  renew 


266  THE    FAIRY   S    SEARCH 


Her  loving  search. — How  grandly  fair  ! 

How  radiant,  with  treasures  rare, 
Was  the  proud  home  that  next  she  sought. 
It  seemed  that  Wealth  and  Taste  had  brought 

Their  choicest  offerings  to  that  shrine ; 

And  Art  had  lent  its  aid  divine, 

To  bid  the  scene  with  beauty  shine. 
It  seemed  that  Rapture's  thrilling  song 

Might  echo  round  those  pictured  walls; 
And  hope  and  joy  and  peace  belong 

To  all  who  trod  those  stately  halls. 
But,  ah  !  what  mortal  home  is  free 

From  Care's  intrusive  form  ? 
What  heart  that  loves,  can  ever  be 

Shielded  from  Sorrow's  storm  ? 
Within  that  home  is  anguish  wild — 
A  mother  there  bewails  her  child, 
Her  only  child,  whose  beauteous  clay 

Enshrined  when  yestermorn  had  birth, 
A  gem  of  pure,  unsullied  ray, 

A  pearl  of  priceless  worth. 
A  Mighty  Power  has  claimed  that  gem, 

With  purpose  good  and  wise, 
And  set  it  in  a  diadem 

Whose  light  illumes  the  skies. 
The  mother  kn  >ws  her  treasure  shines 


T  II  E    F  A  1  It  Y  '  S    SEARCH  267 


In  its  celestial  home, 
Yet  still  her  yearning  heart  repines ; 

Still  fond  regrets  will  come. 
The  rifled  casket  yet  is  dear. 

Although  its  light  has  fled, 
And  mourning  Love  MUST  drop  a  tear 

Above  the  early  dead. 

XIII. 

With  eyes  that  stream  like  summer  showers, 

With  trembling  hand,  and  pallid  face. 
The  mourner  twines  a  wreath  of  flowers 

To  deck  her  child's  last  dwelling  place. 
Ah,  see  how  fair  his  marble  brow 
Looks,  in  that  rosy  garland  now  ! 

And  mark,  what  life-like  hue  is  caught 
By  voiceless  lip  and  moveless  cheek, 

As  if  again  the  spirit  wrought 
In  its  fail-  temple,  and  would  speak 

Some  sweet  and  cheerful  thought. 
What  magic  tints  of  life  and  light, 

And  beauty,  those  fresh  flowerets  give  ! 
They  make  those  clay-cold  features  bright, 

And  whisper  that  the  lost  doth  live. 
So  fair  the  dear  deception  grows, 
That  the  pale  mother's  bosom  glows 


208  THE    FATllY'S    SEARCH. 


With,  a  faint,  shadowy  touch  of  joy, 

While  gazing  on  her  lovely  boy. 
More  hopeful  now  her  watch  she  keeps, 

More  calmly  views  his  lingering  smile, 
Which  seems  to  say  he  only  sleeps. 

Sleeps  calm,  and  dreams  of  heaven  the  while. 

XIV. 

"  Ay  !  twine  them  round  the  silent  head, 

"  And  strew  them  o'er  that  quiet  breast ; 
"  Meet  emblems  of  the  early  dead, 

"  And  fit,  on  such  pure  shrine  to  rest. 
"  Let  none  remove  those  fragrant  things — 
"  Affection's  votive  offerings — 

"  From  the  pale  clay ; — there  let  them  fade  • 

"  And  when  in  darksome  tomb  they're  laid, 
"  Memory  shall  oft  the  lost  restore, 
"  And  paint  him  as  he  looked  before, 

"  With  a  sweet  garland  round  his  brow, 

"  And  his  lip  wreathed  in  smiles. 
"  Thus  shall  the  mourning  mother  borrow 
"  A  pleasant  thought  to  soothe  her  sorrow 

"  And  deem  her  child  was  fitly  dressed 

"To  enter  mansions  of  the  blest, 
"  And  join  the  angel  band." 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  269 


XV. 

The  pitying  Fay, 
Thus  gently  musing,  turned  away  ; 

And  next,  beneath  a  church-yard's  shade, 

Her  airy  pilgrimage  was  stayed. 
Ah,  me  !  it  is  a  solemn  sight, 
A  burial  place  in  scene  so  bright! 

Where  footsteps  glad  and  voices  gay 

Echo  along  the  crowded  way, 
Where  Silence  reigns  not,  night  or  day. 

Methinks  the  quiet  dead  should  rest 
Far  from  the  busy  haunts  of  life ; 

Far  from  all  care  and  toil,  unblest, 
Far  from  all  noise  and  strife. 

In  some  lone  spot,  where  Nature  sheds 
A  smile  serenely  fair, 

Wre  e'er  should  make  the  slumberers'  beds, 
And  lay  thorn  softly  there. 

Pale  star-beams,  or  the  pensive  rnoon, 
Or  sun-set  rays  should  light  the  shrine ; 
While  murmuring  waves,  with  lulling  tune, 

Or  birds,  with  minstrelsy  divine, 
Should  lend  soft  music-tones,  to  play 

Around  the  solemn  scene,  alway. 
And  there  light  winds,  thro'  leafy  bowers, 
Should  whisper  low  to  answering  flowers. 


^70  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


And  waken  dirges  wildly  sweet 
O'er  dwellers  in  that  hushed  retreat. 

XVI. 

As  sadly  gazed  the  Fairy  'round 

On  marble  tomb  and  mossy  mound, 
She  sighed  to  think  of  all  the  woe 
That  living,  loving  hearts  must  know 
For  those  who  slept  so  calm  below. 

But  Peace  spake  softly  to  her  heart, 

When  she  beheld  a  grave  apart, 
So  hallowed  by  Affection's  light, 
'T  was  cheerful  to  the  gazer's  sight. 

The  lowly  bed  was  planted  o'er 
With  shrubs  and  flowers, 

So  chosen  that  their  own  sweet  lore, 

Their  "mystic  language,"  might  disclose 
A  touching  tale.    The  pale  white  rose 

Was  there  of  sadness  deep  to  tell ; 

And  Hyacinth,  whose  purple  bell 
Is  eloquent  of  sorrow ; 

And  violets  of  the  azure  hue, 

Which  change  not  with  the  changing  skies, 

And  therefore  are  the  emblems,  true, 
Of  faithful  love.    Its  fragrant  sighs 

Sweet  Rosemary  breathed  around, 


THE     FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


And,  with  its  leaves  of  fadeless  green, 
Spake  of  remembrance.     There  was  found 
The  graceful  locust  too,  which  gave 

A  cheerful  aspect  to  the  scene, 
And  told  of  love  beyond  the  grave. 
Those  token-flowers  revealed  that  he 

Who  slept  below  was  unforgot ; 
That  fond  and  faithful  memory 

Would  linger  long  around  the  spot, 
The  sacred  shrine  that  Love  had  sought 
For  the  dear  idol  of  its  thought. 

XVII. 

Now,  lowly  kneeling  on  that  bed, 

That  flowcr-strown  grave — the  brightest  there — 
Is  One  whose  check's  young  bloom  is  fled, 

Whose  brow  is  dark  with  grief  and  care. 

Behold,  how  eloquent  of  tears 
Is  her  dim  eye  ! — Its  shadowy  light 
Tells  that  a  cold,  untimely  blight 

Hath  fallen  on  life's  summer  years. 
But,  look  !  she  weaves  a  wreath  of  bloom, — 

A  garland  of  the  Fairy's  roses, 
To  grace  and  hallow  the  dark  tomb 

Where  her  beloved  reposes. 
Mark,  how  the  tide  of  woe  is  stayed. 


272  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


How  Sorrow's  murky  shadows  fade 

From  her  pale  brow  and  mournful  eyes, 
The  while  that  loving  task  she  plies. 

The  tear  drops  pause  upon  her  cheek 
And  linger  there,  and  gleam  awhile, 

As  Night's  soft  dews,  on  mountain  steep, 
Gleam  in  the  Dawn's  glad  smile. 

While  bending  o'er  those  bright-hued  flowers, 
And  drinking  in  their  soft  perfume, 

There  comes  a  dream  of  happier  hours 
To  cheer  this  night  of  gloom. 
The  vanished  scenes  of  other  days 
Rise  brightly  to  her  spirit-gaze  ; 

Her  sobs  are  hushed,  her  tears  are  dried, 

Her  heart  hath  cast  its  weight  aside, 
And  ceased,  awhile,  its  plaint  of  woe 
For  loss  of  him  who  sleeps  below. 

XVIII. 

"  Dream  on,  dream  on,  poor  widowed  heart ! 
"  Such  dreams  may  transient  peace  impart — 

"  The  purest  pleasures  left  for  thee, 
"  Fond  wife,  are  those  of  memory ; 
"  And  they,  in  very  truth  are  thine, 
"  Whilst  votive  garlands  thbu  dost  twine 
"  Around  Love's  sweet,  tho'  darkened  shrine. 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  273 


"Oh,  let  my  cherished  favorites  be 
"  Companions  of  thy  grief  and  thee — 
"  They'll  soothe,  perchance,  the  wild  regret 
"  That  rankles  in  thy  bosom  yet. 

"  Emblems  of  faithful  love,  they'll  give 
"  A  bi*eath  of  fragrance  while  they  live  ; 
"  And  e'en  when  withered,  dark  and  dead, 
"  Some  lingering  sweetness  still  they'll  shed, 
"  Poor  mourner,  round  thy  lost  one's  bed." 

XIX. 

Thus — ere  she  plumed  her  wing  again — 

The  wanderer  spake,  in  pitying  strain ; 
Then  onward  flew  in  doubt  and  fear 
To  a  dark  prison,  towering  near. 

Her  heart  too  truly  told  her,  there 

Dwelt  many  a  victim  of  Despair, 

Shut  out  from  Peace  and  Hope's  sweet  ray, 
Shut  out  from  Honor's  flowery  way, 

Shut  out  from  every  gladsome  sight 

And  sound  that  wakes  such  pure  delight 
In  the  FREE  heart — from  the  blue  sky, 

The  balmy  air  and  sunny  beams, 

The  breathing  flowers  and  bounding  streams, 
And  all  thy  blessings,  Liberty  ! 

Oh,  Crime,  thou  art  a  fearful  thing ! 

18 


274  THE     FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


Thou  brood'st  o'er  earth  with  darkest  wino- — 

o 

And  blighted  hopes,  and  ruined  name, 

Unchanging  woe,  unfailing  shame, 
With  Man's  contempt  and  Heaven's  wrath 
Must  light  on  all  who  tread  thy  path  ! 

Too  late  do  wayward  mortals  learn 

The  fatal  power  of  Sin  to  spurn. 
In  every  record  of  the  past 
They  read  this  bitter  truth  at  last, — 

"  The  culprit  meets  a  culprit's  doom." 
The  good  and  pure  alone  can  know 

The  joys  which  in  life's  pathway  bloom; 
The  heaven,  that  even  here  below 
Can  fill  the  heart,  and  waken  there 

All  its  diviner  powers. 
To  such  Creatioa's  face  is  fair, 

To  such,  its  fields  and  flowers 
Are  still  all  robed  in  hues  of  light, 
The  magic  hues,  serenely  bright, 

That  shone  on  Eden's  bowers. 

And  such,  however  low  their  lot, 

However  circumscribed  the  spot 
They  call  their  home,  may  tread  this  earth, 
Proud  in  the  consciousness  of  worth, 

And  freely  claim  a  kindred  tie 

With  the  angelic  host  on  high. 


THE    FAIRY'S     SEARCH.  275 


XX. 

Mark,  what  a  sad  and  cheerless  sight 

Now  greets  the  Fairy's  gaze ! 
It  seemeth  as  if  sudden  night 

Had  veiled  the  noontide's  blaze  ; 
It  seemeth  as  some  evil  spell 
Had  conjured  up  that  gloomy  cell. 

Narrow  and  low  and  dark  the  walls — 

From  whence  a  noisome  moisture  falls  ; 
Upon  the  unswept  floor  is  spread 
A  heap  of  straw — the  captive's  bed ; 

A  tattered  garment  wraps  him  round; 

His  shrunken  limbs,  in  fetters  bound, 

Make,  as  they  move,  most  dismal  sound. 
But,  mark !  e'en  in  this  hapless  state, 
He  holds  a  link  that  now  unites 
His  spirit  to  a  better  fate. 

Crouched  on  the  floor,  just  where  a  ray 

Of  sickly  sunshine  makes  its  way 
Thro'  grating  small,  behold  him  clasp, 
With   energy's  convulsive  grasp, 

A  few  frail  flowers  ! — How  they  had  found 

Their  way  within  that  prison's  bound, 
'T  were  vain  to  tell.     With  kind  intent, 

Perchance  some  friend  of  other  days 
Had  these  sweet  missionaries  sent, 

Repentance  for  the  past  to  raise. 


276  THE     FAIRY'S     SE  All  Oil. 


Perchance  that  Love,  (it  oft  hath  given 

Such  token  of  its  hallowed  powers,) 
Had,  with  a  pity  born  of  heaven, 

Thus  sought  to  soothe  the  weary  hours 
Of  that  lone  man.    Needless  to  know 

How  those  fresh,  fragrant  flowers  he  gained; 
Be  mine  the  grateful  task  to  show 

AVith  what  beguiling  power  they  reigned 
O'er  the  sad  'heritor  of  shame. 

Long  had  he  paced  the  prison  floor, 

And  eyed  its  narrow  boundary  o'er 
With  glance  like  lightning's  flame ; 
"While  thoughts  of  evil,  dark  and  dire, 
Awoke  his  soul  to  vengeful  ire, 

And  curses,  deep  and  dreadful,  fell 

Like  muttering  thunder  round  his  cell, 
Until  it  seemed  the  gloomy  lair 
Of  some  dark  demon  of  Despair. 

But  now,  a  sudden  change  is  wrought 

In  the  fierce  current  of  his  thought — 
Those  flowers  have  touched  the  only  chord 
Yet  tuneful  in  that  rugged  breast, 

And  Feeling's  fount  is  strangely  stirred, 
Like  waters  in  the  storm's  unrest. 

The  one  pure  spark  that  never  dies 
Even  in  coldest,  hardest  hearts, 

That  gleams,  like  stars  in  clouded  skies, 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  277 


Thro'  all  the  blackness  Sin  imparts, 
Now  wakes  and  brightens  to  a  ray 
That  drives  less  hallowed  thoughts  away. 

TlIE  MEMORY  OF  A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 

How,  like  a  voice  from  worlds  above, 

It  thrills  the  soul !     How  long  it  dwells, 

Shrined  in  the  heart's  most  secret  cells, 
A  sacred  thing !     If  darkening  powers 
Have  quenched  the  light  of  early  hours 

And  bade  all  sweet  emotions  fly, 

All  pure  and  holy  feelings  die, 
Save  this — Yet  this  will  bloom 
Like  a  lone  flower  o'er  some  dark  tomb : 

And  tho'  it  may  be  buried  deep 
Beneath  a  load  of  sin  and  shame ; 

Though,  for  long  seasons  it  may  keep 

Hidden  from  all  its  gentle  flame, 
Yet  it  WILL  wake,  in  some  lone  hour, 
And  rule  the  soul  with  mightiest  power. 

XXI. 

Thus  with  the  captive — thick  and  fast 
As  stars  steal  out  when  day  is  past, 

Now  soft  and  gentle  memories  steal 

Into  his  spirit — they  reveal 
Glimpses  of  better  things.     How  bright  appears 


278  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


The  vision  of  his  sinless  years  ! 

How  purely,  to  his  dreaming  gaze, 
Comes  up  the  dear,  tho'  faded  form 
Of  her  who  watched  with  love  most  warm 

His  Childhood's  wayward  clays  ! 
Each  token  of  her  care  for  him, 

Her  only  son,  her  hope  and  pride ; 
Her  watchings  'til  the  stars  grew  dim, 

In  nightly  vigils  by  his  side 
When  pain  oppressed.    Her  tireless  care 

To  teach  him  lessons  good  and  pure  : 
Her  oft  repeated  wish  and  prayer 

That  he  might  Learning's  wealth  secure , 

Her  counsel  sage,  so  sweetly  given, 

It  well  might  lure  to  hopes  of  heaven : — 
All  these  fond  memories  cluster  now 

Around  the  captive's  heart — their  power 
Is  like  the  sun's  reviving  glow 

In  Spring's  enchanted  hour. 
"  Oh,  God !  and  can  it  really  be 
"  A  wretch  so  vile,  so  lost  as  me, 

"  Could  e'er  have  been  so  rich,  so  bless'd  ? 
"  Did  such  a  love,  with  purest  ray, 
"  In.  truth  illume  my  Childhood's  day  ? 

"Ah,  would  to  heaven  that  Death's  cold  hand 
"  Had  laid  me  in  an  early  grave, 


T  1 1  I]     F  A  I II  Y  '  S    S  E  A  11  C  II.  271) 


"  Ere  I  forgot  one  soft  command 
"  My  sainted  mother  gave  !  " 

XXII. 

These  earnest  words  the  captive  said, 
Then  bent  his  form,  and  bowed  his  head, 

And  wept — Ay,  wept ! — that  man  of  crime, 

Freely,  as  in  life's  holier  time. 
Thus  he,  whose  spirit  woe  and  pain, 
And  gloomy  cell  and  galling  chain 

Had  failed  to  soften  or  subdue, 
Now  melted  to  remorseful  tears, 

To  penitence  sincere  and  true 
Before  those  fairy  flowers.     And  she 

Who  came  to  bear  them  to  her  bower, 
Wept  too,  with  wondering  joy,  to  see 

This  last  proud  token  of  their  power. 

XXIII. 
;<  Ah,  never  more  my  heart  shall  dream 

"  Of  winning  back  its  treasures  fair, 
"  So  dear  to  mortal  homes  they  seem, 

"'Tis  meet  they  spend  their  sweet  lives  there. 
Dear  unto  all — the  young  and  gay, 
"  The  aged,  in  their  wintry  day, 

"  The  happy,  in  their  blissful  mood, 
"The  sorrowing,  when  their  griefs  intrude. 


280  THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


"  Oh  !  let  these  beauteous  products,  then, 

"  Bloom  ever  near  the  haunts  of  men ; 
"  Let  lowly  cot  and  lordly  hall, 
"  And  wide  domain  and  garden  small 

"  Receive  the  gentle  guests.    And  they, 
"  Henceforth  shall  rule  with  loftier  sway; 

"  For  I  am  homeless  now — my  bower 
"  Is  desolate,  and  I  must  dwell 

"  Awhile  with  every  varied  flower 
"  That  buds  and  blooms.    A  mystic  spell, 

"  A  high  and  holy  charm  shall  be 
"  THEIR  recompense,  who  shelter  me ; 

" '  Round  each  and  all  this  gift  shall  live, 

"E'en  after  they  have  ceased  to  give 

"The  wandering  Fay  a  home. 
"  But  ever,  in  fond  memory 

"  Of  my  own  chosen  flower, 
"  ROSES,  of  every  hue  shall  own 

"  A  spell  of  deepest  power : 
"  The  charm  I  lend  to  them,  shall  cast 

"  Its  witchery  over  every  heart, 
'•  And  hold  sweet  influence  there,  and  last 

"  '  Til  life  itself  depart. 
"  Angelic  spirits,  when  they  grieve 

"  O'er  those  who  stray  from  Virtue's  track, 
"  Shall  bless  the  spells  that  roses  weave, 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH  231 


"  And  choose  them  as  fond  messengers 
"  To  call  the  wanderers  back. 

XXIV. 

No  more  the  Fairy  spake — No  more 

She  mourned  her  lost.     Her  search  was  o'er, 

But  not  her  wanderings — oft  she  strayed 

Where  varied  flow'rets  bloomed,  and  made 
Her  home  awhile  with  each.     And  still 
She  roams  earth's  garden-bowers  at  will, 

And  nestles  in  Spring's  earliest  rose, 
Or  flutters  round  the  tulip's  bell, 

Or  creeps,  at  evening's  dewy  close, 
Within  the  lily's  fragrant  cell, 

To  slumber  there,  and  dream  away 

The  summer  night,  in  visions  gay ; 
And  when  the  Morning  smiles  again, 

Leaving  the  bright-hued  garden  flowers, 
She  hies  to  far  hill-side  or  plain, 

To  spend  a  few  delicious  hours 
Where  wilding  honey-suckles  fling 
Their  balmy  sweets  on  zephyr's  wing. 

Whene'er  a  storm-cloud  veils  the  sky, 

Or  threatening  winds  sweep  rudely  by, 

She  hastens  to  a  safe  retreat, 
The  violet's  sheltered  home, — and  there 


THE    FAIRY'S    SEARCH. 


Receives  a  welqpme  sweet, 

And  rests  'til  heaven  again  is  fair. 

'  XXV. 

Oh  !  ye  -who  nurture  flowers,  and  feel 
Their  perfumed  breathings  softly  steal, 

Like  witchery  to  your  heart,  be  sure 
The  wandering  Fay  hath  sojourned  there, 
Amid  your  cherished  treasures,  where 

Her  charm  doth  yet  endure. 
And  ye  who  roam  o'er  daisied  ground, 
When  Spring  or  Summer  smiles  around, 

And  taste  a  bliss  words  may  not  tell, 

Know  that  the  gentle  Fairy's  spell — 
Most  potent  in  such  place  and  time — 
Awakes  that  sense  of  joy  sublime. 


And  now  my  pleasant  task  were  done, 
Save  that  there  comes  a  thought  of  one 
Who  truly  said — "  They  write  in  vain 
Who  weave  no  moral  with  their  strain."- 
And  mine  were  little  worth,  indeed, 
If  wanting  this.     To  those  who  read 
This  simple  tale,  I  humbly  say 


THE     FAIRY'S    SEARCH.  283 


Cherish  aud  love  the  lowly  things 
Which  form  the  burthen  of  my  lay ; 

For  their  sweet  lives,  tho'  brief  as  bright, 
Are  guarded  by  that  Power  Divine 

Which  bids  each  glorious  world  of  light 
In  its  appointed  orbit  shine. 

And  not  more  wondrous  to  the  soul, 

Those  radiant  orbs  which  o'er  us  roll. 

Unchanged  by  Time — than  the  frail  flower 
Whose  Jifc  is  compassed  by  an  hour. 

Each  speaks  the  same  high  language !     Each, 

In  thrilling  eloquence,  doth  teach 
Our  hearts  in  reverent  love  to  bend 
To  the  Pure  Source,  from  whence  descend 
Blessings  and  beauties  without  end. 


THE     POET'S     APPEAL. 


I. 

LEND  me  your  voice,  ye  winds,  who  wake  a  strain  so  high ! 
Lend  me  your  voice  to  sing  a  song  that  shall  not  die  : 
On  pinions  fast  and  free 

And  chainless  as  your  own, 
My  thoughts,  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Sweep  on  from  zone  to  zone. 

Their  flight  is  proud  as  yours — no  laws  of  Time  control, 
No  earthly  limits  bound  these  heralds  of  the  soul ; 
Far  up,  thro'  realms  of  space,  up  to  the  source  of  day, 
Like  ye,  great  minstrel-bands,  they  take  their  lofty  way ; 
And  could  they  too,  like  ye,  oh!  airy  bards,  go  forth, 
Singing  in  cadence  grand  of  their  immortal  birth, 
How  might  they  chain  and  charm  the  listening  sons  of  earth  i 

II. 

Lend  me  your  hues,  ye  flowers !  lend  me  your  rainbow  dyes, 
To  paint  the  gorgeous  dreams  that  in  my  soul  arise : 
The  forms  of  beauty  there, 

The  visioned  shapes  of  grace, 
Are  all  as  pure  and  fair 

As  ye,  oh,  gentle  race ! 

These  beings  of  the  mind,  like  ye  sweet  flowers,  decay, 
The  chilling  breath  of  Care  steals  their  soft  bloom  away; 


THE    POET'S    APPEAL.  285 


Yet  ever  when  the  storms  of  Care  and  Grief  are  o'er, 
They  rise,  like  ye  in  spring,  more  lovely  than  before. 
Then,  children  of  the  sun,  lend  me  your  hues  of  light, 
That  I  may  learn  to  paint  my  spirit-dreams  aright, 
And  thus  entrance  the  world  with  pictures  truly  bright. 

III. 

Lend  me  your  beams,  ye  stars !  ye  pilgrims  of  the  sky, 
Wandering  forever  there,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  high; 
Lend  me  your  light  serene, 

To  guide  my  footsteps  here ; 
Then  shall  earth's  mazy  scene 

To  me  be  plain  and  clear. 

My  hopes  are  like  yourselves,  holy,  and  high  and  pure : 
Amid  life's  clouds  and  storms,  like  ye,  they  smile  secure; 
But  ah,  like  ye  they  shine  far  off,  beyond  my  reach, — 
How  best  to  win  them  here,  your  fadeless  beams  may  teach 
Then  shed  iipon  my  path,  oh,  beacon-flames  sublime  ! 
The  light  by  which  my  soul  may  learn  the  way  to  climb 
To  those  far  heights  which  tower  beyond  the  waves  of  Time 


THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS. 


THEY  arc  exiled,  by  Destiny's  changeless  decree, 

From  heritage,  birth-place  and  home  ; 
They  are  doomed,  like  the  winds  that  sweep  over  the  sea, 

Forever  unresting  to  roam. 
They  are  driven  afar  from  their  dear  natal  clime ; 

They  are  hastening  on  to  decay — 
A  few  more  dark  waves  from  the  ocean  of  Time 

Will  sweep  their  last  remnant  away. 

II. 

E'en  now,  from  each  wild  forest  scene  of  the  West, 

From  valley  and  hill-side  and  stream, 
From  the  lake's  sunny  border,  the  prairie's  broad  breast 

Their  memories  fade  like  a  dream. 
When  a  few  more  brief  years  shall  have  roll'd  o'er  this  land. 

And  cities  embellish  each  plain, 
On  our  far  western  hills  will  the  traveller  stand 

And  ask  for  the  Red  men  in  vain. 

III. 

In  vain  will  he  ask  for  the  wild  sports  they  loved 
In  their  happy  and  prosperous  hour, 


THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS.  287 


For  the  homes  where  they  dwelt,and  the  haunts  where  they  roved 

In  the  days  of  their  freedom  and  power. 
No  eloquent  record  shall  tell  of  the  race ; 

No  epitaph  point  to  its  tomb ; — 
The  surges  of  Time  will  have  swallowed  each  trace 

Of  the  Eed  Man's  renown,  and  his  doom. 

IV. 
Where  graceful  canoes  once  were  gliding  about, 

Proud  Steamers  will  hurry  along; 
Where  Echo  once  woke  to  the  warrior's  shout, 

She  will  answer  the  husbandman's  song. 
Where  green  forests  waved,  or  fair  hunting  grounds  spread  : 

Where  roamed  the  wild  bison  or  deer, 
Glad  children  shall  sport,  and  gay  multitudes  tread, 

And  beautiful  cities  appear. 

V. 
The  flock  of  the  herdsman  will  feed  o'er  the  grave 

Where  the  form  of  a  chieftain  was  laid ; 
The  rich  golden  harvest  of  Autumn  will  wave 

Where  the  tomb  of  a  nation  was  made. 
The  ploughman  will  pause  in  the  midst  of  his  toil, 

To  ask,  with  a  wondering  gaze, 
As  he  bends  over  relics  he  turns  with  the  soil, 

"  Who  dwelt  here  in  earlier  days  ?" 


238  THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS. 


VI 

No  voice  from  the  Past  can  arise  to  reveal 

The  secret  he  questions  to  know ; 
For  Poesy's  song  will  not  wake  to  the  theme, 

Nor  History  an  answer  bestow. 
Only  Echo's  low  voice  will  reply  to  the  sound — 

By  hill-side  and  valley  and  plain, 

Her  mystical  melody,  lingering  around, 

'  Will  repeat  the  sad  question  again. 

VII. 

Ah,  well  may  we  mourn  the  poor  Indian's  doom ! 

When  his  last  earthly  wanderings  are  o'er, 
He  must  sink  to  a  dark  and  unchronicled  tomb, 

To  be  named  or  remembered,  no  more. 
Let  us  hope,  in  the  far  spirit-land  he  may  find 

Those  "  Hunting  grounds,"  blissful  and  bright, 
Whose  glimpses  of  happiness  here  filled  his  mind 

With  undisturbed  dreams  of  delight. 


THE    HAPPY    BAND. 

I. 

Ix  life's  sweet  morn  we  were  a  band 

Of  children  glad  and  gay, 
Who  sported  ever,  hand  in  hand, 

The  rosy  hours  away. 
Like  social  birds  that  roam  in  flocks 

To  seek  their  summer  bowers, 
We  wandered  closely  side  by  side, 

Hunting  the  early  flowers. 

II. 
We  numbered  eight — eight  loving  hearts 

So  fondly  knit  together, 
That  sunny  peace  and  kindness  made 

Unchanging  summer  weather. 
No  clouds  arose — no  coldness  came — 

No  stormy  words  or  tears ; 
But  each  to  each  remained  the  same 

Thro'  childhood's  wayward  years. 

III. 

Youth  came — The  music  of  our  lives 
Still  kept  its  joyous  tone, 

For  each  harmonious  note  was  breathed 
19 


2UO  THE     HAPPY     BAND. 


By  hearts  that  beat  as  one. 
And  changes  came — yet  still  the  love 

That  brightened  childhood's  day, 
Shone  like  a  star  upon  our  souls, 

And  cheered  our  onward  way. 

IV. 

Years  passed — and  mingled  light  and  shade 

Played  o'er  Life's  changeful  sky, 
Yet  still  we  were  a  happy  band 

Linked  by  a  holy  tie. 
If  e'er  we  parted,  'twas  to  meet 

In  deeper  bliss  again, 
For  time  and  absence  only  seemed 

To  strengthen  Love's  fond  chain. 

V. 

But  ah,  a  mightier  power  than  Time 

Brought  saddest  change  at  last, 
And  o'er  the  brightness  of  our  lives 

A  mournful  shadow  cast. 
One  precious  link  of  Love's  sweet  chain 

Was  severed ! — Never  more 
Can  wish  or  hope,  or  prayer  or  tear, 

That  parted  link  restore. 


THE     HAPPY     BAXD. 


VI. 

The  dearest  member  of  our  band 

Comes  not  to  join  us  now — 
The  cold  earth  lies  upon  his  breast, 

The  green  sod  veils  his  brow. 
Sweet  Spring,  who  wakens  sleeping  flowers, 

And  bids  them  freshly  bloom, 
Has  no  life-giving  ray  to  call 

Our  slumberer  from  the  tomb. 

VII. 

We  meet,  but  'tis  in  silent  grief, 

For  thoughtfully  we  stand, 
Each  reading  on  the  other's  brow 

"  We  are  a  broken  band." 
Our  household  group  is  like  a  harp 

Whose  sweetest  string  is  gone, — 

No  longer  can  its  music  make 
A  full  and  perfect  tone. 

VIII. 

We  breathe  no  fretful,  murmuring  words, 

We  shed  no  bitter  tears ; 
But  we  feel  that  life  hath  lost  the  charm 

Of  its  departed  years. 


292  THE    HAPPY     BAND. 


Youth's  confidence  in  earthly  bliss, 
Its  faith  in  Love's  high  powers, 

Its  fearless  trust  in  future  good 
Can  never  more  be  ours. 

IX. 

One  solemn  lesson  now  hath  taught 
Our  souls  this  truth  severe, 

LOVE  HAS  NO  BOXD  OR  LEASE  TO  HOLD 
ITS  PRECIOUS  TREASURES  HERE. 

Since  Death  has  stolen  one  away, 
We  hope  and  trust  no  more  ; 

But  ever  fear,  as  misers  do 
Who.  dread  to  lose  their  store. 

X. 

Yet  we  repine  not — for  there  comes 

A  memory  pure  and  bright, 
That,  like  the  rainbow  after  storms, 

We  welcome  with  delight. 
Our  sainted  brother,  ere  his  soul 

Passed  to  the  better  land, 
Bade  us  all  hope  that  there,  once  more, 

We'd  form  a  "happy  band." 


"HER   EYE  IS   UNDIMM'D." 

I. 
Her  eye  is  undimm'd  and  her  brow  still  unclouded ; 

You  would  think  that  Joy's  sunbeams  yet  brighten'dher  soul, 
But  alas !  every  hope  in  a  dark  veil  is  shrouded, 

And  the  waves  of  Despair  o'er  wrecked  Happiness  roll. 
The  dream  she  most  cherished,  most  rudely  is  broken ; 

The  heart  she  most  trusted  has  deeply  deceived; 
And  the  shrine  where  she  lavished  each  love-breathing  token 

Has  proved  all  unworthy  the  gifts  it  received. 

II. 

Yet  she  wears  the  same  look  that  she  wore  in  the  season 

When  all  her  glad  steps  pressed  the  flowers  of  delight, 
And  thoughtless  observers  believe  they  have  reason 

To  envy  that  maiden  her  destiny  bright. 
She  breathes  not  a  word  of  the  woes  that  oppress  her ; 

She  asks  not,  she  hopes  not,  for  cure  or  relief; 
And  the  lovers  who  flatter,  the  friends  who  caress  her 

Dream  not  that  their  idol  is  dying  of  grief. 

III. 
Ah !  thus  have  I  seen  some  proud  fane,  famed  in  story, 

Tho'  dim  with  the  mouldering  touch  of  decay. 
Still  wearing  to  outward  appearance  the  glory 

It  wore  in  its  better  and  earlier  day ; 


294  "H  E  R    EYE    IS    U  N  D  I  M  M  '  D ." 


And  while  the  soft  sunlight  danced  cheerily  o'er  it, 
And  clustering  vines  veiled  each  blemish  with 

No  pilgrim  who  passed  in  mute  reverence  before  it, 
Could  dream  of  the  ruin  that  lurked  'neath  its  towers. 


THE    BEACON. 


"The  island  of  Rona  is  a  small  and  very  rocky  spot  of  land  lying 
between  the  isle  of  Skye  and  the  mainland  of  Applecross,  and  is  well 
known  to  mariners  for  the  rugged  and  dangerous  nature  of  the  coast. 
At  the  extremity  of  this  dreary  solitude  is  the  residence  of  a  poor 
widow,  whose  lonely  cottage  is  called  "  the  light-house,"  from  the 
fact  that  she  uniformly  keeps  a  lamp  burning  in  her  window  at  night. 
During  the  silent  and  solitary  watches  of  the  night  she  may  be  seen 
trimming  her  little  lamp,  being  fearful  that  some  misguided  and  frail 
bark  may  perish  through  her  neglect ;  and  for  this  she  receives  no 
manner  of  remuneration— it  is  pure,  unmingled  philanthropy." 

<:  So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world." 

I. 

TIIEKE'S  a  lonely  isle,  on  whose  rocky  shore 
The  wild  surge  dashes,  ever  more, 
With  a  sullen  sound  like  thunder's  roar. 

II. 

Then;  stormy  winds  strange  revels  keep 

Wailing  and  wandering  o'er  the  deep, 
Like  troubled  souls  that  cannot  sleep. 

III. 

With  watchful  care,  by  night  or  day, 
In  winter  stern  or  summer  gay, 
The  mariner  shuns  that  coast  alway, 


296  THE    BEACON. 


IV. 

What  tho'  the  skies  are  bright  and  fair? 
Tho'  calm  and  safety  smile  elsewhere  ? 
Yet  danger  ever  lurketh  there. 

V. 

On  the  wildest  part  of  that  wild  spot, 
Where  other  human  home  is  not, 
Dwells  a  woman  lone,  in  an  humble  cot. 

VI. 

She  hath  no  friend  or  neighbor  near; 
No  pleasant  sight  or  sound  to  cheer — 
Why  lingers  she  in  home  so  drear  ? 

VII. 

As  twilight  shadows  deepen  round, 
More  dismal  grows  the  night-wind's  sound  ; 
More  fierce  the  wild  wave  beats  the  ground. 

VIII. 

Yet  that  lone  dweller  by  the  sea 
Beholds,  with  heart  from  terror  free, 
The  night  approach  so  gloomily. 

IX. 

Her  spirit,  blameless,  good  and  pure, 
In  its  own  holy  light  secure, 
May  well  that  outward  gloom  endure. 


THE    BEACON.  297 


X. 

Look !  from  her  casement  streams  a  ray 
That  cheers  and  guides  till  dawn  of  day, 
The  wanderer  on  his  trackless  way. 

XL 

Thro'  the  long  watches  of  the  night, 
Like  vestal  guarding  sacred  light, 
She  trims  and  keeps  that  beacon  bright. 

XII. 

Oft,  when  the  storm-winds  wildly  rave, 
She  prays  her  signal-flame  may  save 
Some  voyager  from  untimely  grave. 

XIII. 

The  Mighty  Watcher  hears  her  prayer ! 
And  many  a  storm-toss'd  bark  doth  spare, 
To  recompense  her  pious  care. 

XIV. 

And  thus,  the  varying  seasons  through — 
Patient  and  tireless,  firm  and  true, 
This  noble  task  doth  she  pursue. 

XV. 

Ah !  warriors,  in  their  country's  need, 
May  boldly  fight  and  bravely  bleed, 
But  Glory's  laurels  are  their  meed. 


298  THE    BEACON. 


XVI. 

And  Statesmen,  when  they  toil  by  day, 
Or  wear  in  thought  the  night  away, 
Win  fame  or  fortune  for  their  pay. 

XVII. 

All  who  enact  the  martyr's  part, 
Hide  ever,  in  their  secret  heart, 
Some  hope  that  well  may  strength  impart. 

XVIII. 

But  here  a  nobler  one  we  see ! 
One,  whose  lone  life  proclaims  that  she 
From  every  selfish  aim  is  free, — 

XIX. 

Enacting  part  so  truly  great, 
That  angels,  from  their  high  estate, 
Might  bend,  as  we  the  tale  relate. 

XX. 

Oh,  may  a  deed  so  like  divine, 
Bright  in  the  world's  best  annals  shine, 
And  live,  while  rolling  years  decline ! 


SUNLIGHT    AND    SHADOW 

I. 

I  STOOD  beside  a  rippling  stream, 

One  changeful  April  day, 
And  watched  the  sun's  capricious  beam 

Upon  the  waters  play; 
Like  some  pure  spirit  of  delight 

It  sported  here  and  there, 
Making  each  tiny  wavelet  bright 

As  gems  that  monarchs  wear. 

II. 
Yet  never  long  that  glittering  guest 

Might  dancing  waves  illume; 
Cloud-shadows  oft  would  o'er  them  cast 

A  veil  of  sudden  gloom ; 
One  moment  Summer's  placid  smile 

Played  on  the  streamlet's  face, 
The  next,  cold  Winter's  angry  frown 

Seemed  lowering  in  its  place. 

III. 
Yet,  whether  darken'd  o'er  by  clouds 

Or  brightened  by  a  ray, 
Those  never-resting  waters  still 

Went  gliding  on  their  way. 


300  SUNLIGHT    AND    SHADOW. 


They  lingered  not  when  sunshine  came ; 

They  hurried  not  in  shade; 
But,  with  the  same  unvarying  pace 

Their  onward  journey  made. 

IV. 

Methought,  whilst  gazing  on  those  waves, 

That  in  them  I  could  see 
A  solemn  type  of  human  life — 

Their  voices  unto  me 
Seemed  whispering  of  that  mightier  stream, 

The  rushing  wave  of  Time, 
Which  bears  us  still,  in  light  or  gloom, 

On  toward  the  spirit-clime. 

V. 

Sunlight  and  shadow  mark  the  course 

Of  Life's  departing  day— 
Our  sorrows  are  the  frowning  cloud, 

Our  joys  the  laughing  ray. 
Sunlight  and  shadow  in  our  home ; 

The  same  within  our  heart ; 
Sunlight  and  shadow  o'er  the  world 

Their  changeful  hues  impart. 


S  U  N  L  I  G  II  T    AND     SHADOW.         301 


VI. 

Alike  upon  the  lowly  cot 

And  on  the  mansion  fair, 
The  sunlight  and  the  shadows  fall 

With  just  and  equal  share : 
The  poorest  toiler  need  not  fear 

To  live  in  shade  alway ; 
The  proudest  Monarch  may  not  hope 

To  bid  the  sunshine  stay. 

VII. 

For  every  wave  of  life  will  have 

Its  portion  of  the  light ; 
And  that  which  glides  in  gloom  to  day 

To-morrow  will  be  bright : 
And  whether,  like  the  river's  wave, 

In  sun  or  shade  they  roll, 
They  still,  with  never  resting  pace, 

Flow  onward  to  their  goal. 


THE    LOST    SPIRIT    OF    YOUTH. 

I. 

I  WEAR  no  sables  on  my  form,  no  cypress  on  my  brow, 
And  yet  the  mourner's  gloomy  garb  would  well  befit  me  now ; 
For  darkly  o'er  my  musing  heart,  the  pall  of  grief  is  spread 
And  like  a  weeper  at  a  tomb  I  mourn  a  spirit  fled. 

II. 

A  spirit  of  delight,  that  cast  its  own  glad  radiance  round , 
And  made  all  thought  one  dream  of  bliss,  all  earth  enchanted 

ground. 

Oh,  glorious  spirit  of  my  youth  !     Is  thy  sweet  mission  o'er? 
And  canst  thou  come,  with  witching  spells  to  bless  me, 

never  more? 

III. 

I  do  not  ask  the  eye's  lost  light,  the  cheek's  once  roseate  hue ; 
I  would  but  keep  the  heart's  sweet  flowers  from  changing, 

fading  too. 

What  tho'  this  temple  of  the  soul  be  worn  by  grief  or  care, 
If  still  the  holy  light  within  might  shine  undimned  and  fair  ? 

IV. 
But,  woe  is  me !     Life's  many  storms  have  touched  the 

"spark  divine," 
now  'tis  like  a  dying  lamp  within  a  ruined  shrine — 


THE    LOST    SPIRIT   OF   YOUTH.        303 


Its  fitful  radiance  yet  reveals  some  relics  pure  and  bright, 
But  more  it  shows  the  saddening  power  of  Time's  unfailing 
blight. 

V. 

Ah,  joyous  spirit  of  my  youth!  thou  didst  too  quickly  flee — 
Without  thy  aid  I  can  no  more  Earth's  varied  beauty  see ; 
I  miss  the  glorious  smile  of  morn,  the  magic  charms  of  eve  ; 
Glad  nature  thrills  my  heart  no  more — how  can  I  choose 
but  grieve  ? 

VI. 

Yet  even  now,  while  o'er  the  tomb  of  buried  Youth  I  bend, 
Beguiling  tones  of  melody  with  Sorrow's  murmurs  blend; 
I  seem  to  hear  an  angel-voice,  tolling  of  climes  more  fair, 
And  whispering  low  these  welcome  words,  "Youth  is  eternal 
there." 


LINES    FOR    AN    ALBUM. 


Could  we  chain  the  sweet  airs  that  float  round  us  in  spring, 
Could  we  prison  the  music  the  wild  robins  sing  ; 
Could  we  stay  the  bright  rose,  in  its  opening  hour, 
And  keep  it  thus  glowing,  half  bud  and  half  flower, 
Could  we  catch  the  rich  hues  of  that  arch  in  the  sky 
Which  smiles  o'er  the  clouds,  when  the  storm  has  gone  by, 
Oh  !  then  might  we  hope — by  some  magical  chain — 
The  beautiful  spirit  of  youth  to  detain ! 

II- 

But  alas  !  never  mortal  might  boast  this  high  power  : 
Life's  march  we  may  stay  not — e'en  one  happy  hour — 
Ah!  'tis  well  then  to  learn  ere  our  pleasures  decay, 
How  to  strengthen  the  soul  for  a  stormier  day. 
If  our  homes  are  enriched  with  Affection's  bright  store, 
And  our  minds  are  the  garners  of  Wisdom's  pure  lore ; 
If  we  list  to  the  counsel  that  Virtue  imparts, 
And  shrine  the  fair  jewel  of  truth  in  our  hearts ; 
Then  we'll  miss  not  the  glories  of  Youth's  sunny  morn, 
Nor  sigh  for  the  good  that  can  never  return ; 
But,  relinquishing  calmly  the  blossoms  of  Spring, 
We'll  welcome  the  fruits  that  calm  Autumn  will  bring. 


GENIUS. 

I. 
THERE  is  a  fragile,  fair  and  fragrant  flower 

That  blooms  on  rocks,  or  Alpine  summits  high . 
It  never  feels  the  summer  sun  or  shower ; 

It  never  sees  a  smiling  summer  sky. 

II. 

The  icy  breath  of  winter  round  it  blows, 
And  frowning  tempests  gather  o'er  its  head ; 

Yet  still  as  bright  and  beautiful  it  grows 
As  cultured  tenant  of  a  garden-bed. 

III. 
Like  that  lone  blossom,  oft  is  Genius  found 

In  some  rude  scene,  where  all  is  bleak  and  drear ; 
Where  no  soft,  genial  influence  smiles  around, 

And  no  warm  ray  of  hope  is  lent  to  cheer. 

IV. 

Where  the  keen  breath  of  Slander  sheds  a  blight ; 
Where  stern  Misfortune's  bitter  tompasts  come ; 
Where  Envy,  Pain  and  Penury  unite 

To  crush  the  bud — there  Genius  finds  a  home. 

20 


306  GENIUS. 


V. 
And  there  it  lives  — despite  the  many  storms 

That,  gathering  round  it,  threaten  to  destroy ; 
There  too  it  blooms  more  bright  than  favored  plants 

Reared  on  the  sunny  plains  of  peace  and  joy. 


THE    BURNING    BOAT. 

I. 
O'KH  the  dark  wintry  waters  low  night  winds  were  sighing ; 

The  young  moon's  pale  smile  faintly  gleamed  in  the  west 
As  a  boat  o'er  the  foam-crested  billow  was  flying, 

Like  a  sea-bird  at  eve  to  her  far-away  nest. 

II. 
Many  warm,  loving  hearts  in  that  ocean-home  beating, 

Had  just  said  "farewell,"  with  a  sigh  and  a  tear; 
While  others  were  thrilled  with  the  fond  hope  of  meeting 

The  loved  ones,  whose  smiles  made  existence  so  dear. 

III. 
Yes,  many  were  hastening  to  Home's  peaceful  pleasures, 

After  wandering  long  on  the  perilous  main — 
How  bright  were  their  dreams,  as  life's  holiest  treasures 

Drew  near,  and  in  fancy  they  clasped  them  again ! 

IV. 
No  gale  in  her  pathway — no  storm  cloud  above  her ; 

No  fierce,  angry  tempest  proclaiming  its  power — 
Ah,  why  should  the  spirit  of  dark  ruin  hover 

Above  that  lone  boat,  at  the  calm  evening  hour  ? 


308  THE    BURNING    BOAT. 


V. 

Like  the  midnight  assassin,  a  dread  foe  comes  stealing 
To  do  its  foul  work,  amid  silence  and  gloom — 

Too  soon  the  sad  truth,  all  its  terrors  revealing, 
Will  thrill  every  heart  with  the  fiat  of  doom. 

VI. 
Lo  !  the  boat  is  in  flames !     Hark  !  afar  o'er  the  oceaa, 

Rings  the  loud  cry  of  fear,  and  the  shriek  of  dismay — 
In  that  dreadful  moment  of  direst  commotion, 

How  wildly,  how  vainly  the  pale  tremblers  pray  1 

VII. 
The  red  flames  are  bursting  in  fury  around  them — 

No  path  of  retreat ;  and  no  angel  to  save — 
The  wide  waste  of  dark  wintry  waters  around  them — 

No  hope,  and  no  choice,  save  the  fire  or  the  wave  ! 

VIII. 
One  thought  to  their  loved  ones — one  prayer  to  heaven — 

One  shuddering  glance  on  their  merciless  foe — 
A  shriek,  a  wild  plunge,  and  the  victims  have  given 

Themselves  to  the  grave  that  yawns  darkly  below. 

IX. 
More  hurriedly  now  the  wild  flames  are  careering; 

More  faint  grow  the  cries,  and  more  solemn  the  scene; 


THE    BURNING     BOAT.  309 


Beneath  the  cold  wave  they  are  fast  disappearing — 
Ah!  Death  and  Destruction  triumphant  have  been  ! 

X. 

'Tis  morn— and  the  sun  o'er  the  bright  wave  is  beaming- 
No  traces  of  shipwreck  or.  suffering  remain, 

But  many  bereaved  ones  in  anguish  are  dreaming 
That  night's  mournful  tragedy  over  again. 


THE    SPIEIT    OF    SPRING. 

I. 
THERE  is  a  joyous  spirit  in  the  air — 

Her  presence  thrills  u$  like  a  magic  spell; 
Her  breath  is  pure  as  blossoms  fresh  and  fair ; 

Her  accents  sweet  as  Music's  gentlest  swell. 

It 

High  power  o'er  Nature  hath  this  viewless  sprite — 
Freely  she  floats  o'er  mount,  o'er  vale  and  stream, 

Painting  them  each  in  hues  most  soft  and  bright, 
And  bidding  Earth  in  primal  beauty  beam. 

III. 

Like  a  victorious  chieftain,  marching  on, 
'Mid  songs  and  plaudits  of  his  soldier-band, 

Winning  the  meed  of  praise  from  every  tongue, 
So  moves  fair  Spring,  triumphant,  thro  the  land. 

IV. 
Her  followers  are  a  multitude  of  flowers, 

That  wake  to  life  where'er  her  footsteps  fall ; 
Her  minstrels  are  the  birds  from  southern  bowers, 

Who  tune  their  notes  obedient  to  her  call. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SPRING.  311 


V. 

Her  plumes  are  graceful  boughs  of  waving  trees, 
That  nod  and  sport,  with  every  zephyr's  sigh ; 

Her  banner  is  the  sunlight,  streaming  free, 
Her  tented  home  the  blue,  far-reaching  sky. 

VI. 
Where'er  she  moves  a  wonderons  change  is  seen — 

Dark  clouds  and  mists  hide  from  her  smiling  eyes , 
While  barren  hills  put  on  their  robes  of  green, 

And  •wreath  their  brows  with  flowers  of  rainbow  dyes 

VII. 

And  not  o'er  Nature's  works  alone,  fair  Spring 
Breathes  the  soft  might  of  her  reviving  power — 

To  Nature's  children  she  doth  ever  bring 

A  balm  that  soothes  the  saddest,  weariest  hour. 

VIII. 

Man  feels  this  gentle  magic,  and  his  heart 
Leaps  to  the  rapid  measure  of  delight ; 

Each  languid  pulse  to  "  healthful  music"  starts ; 
Each  somber  thought  gives  place  to  visions  bright. 

IX. 

The  youth  leads  forth  the  maiden  of  his  choice — 
Together  'neath  a  smiling  heaven  they  rove, 


312  THE    SPIRIT    OF    SPRING. 


While  all  their  fond  emotions  find  a  voice 

To  praise  the  Power  that  woke  their  souls  to  love. 

X. 

And  frolic  Childhood,  with  a  shout  of  glee 

Hailing  the  joyous  Spirit  of  the  air, 
Bounds  o'er  the  hills,  with  footsteps  light  and  free, 

To  hunt  the  birds,  or  gather  violets  fair. 

XI. 

E'en  the  poor  outcast,  who  is  lured  to  crime, 
Whose  erring  steps  have  wandered  long  astray, 

Won  by  the  softening  influence  of  the  time, 
Breathes  a  low  prayer  to  turn  to  Virtue's  way. 

XII. 
As  genial  sunbeams  pierce  Earth's  frozen  breast 

To  warm  the  seed  and  wake  it  into  flower 
So  doth  the  glance  of  Spring,  on  mission  blest, 

Steal  to  the  heart  of  Man  with  holiest  power. 


THE    STORMY    PETREL. 


"  Flocks  of  these  birds  aro  seen  at  almost  all  seasons  of  the  year, 
roaming  fearless  and  tireless  over  the  wide  waste  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean.  Many  mariners  believe  them  to  be  the  heralds  of  an  ap 
proaching  storm,  (hence  their  name,)  and  the  more  superstitious 
class  of  seamen  deem  them  spirits  of  the  departed,  undergoing  a 
sort  of  penance  for  their  sins." 


I. 
WHENCE  come  ye,  mystic  pilgrims  of  the  deep  ? 

What  are  ye  seeking  on  the  restless  wave? 
Why  do  ye  thus  such  weary  wanderings  keep  ? 

Why  do  ye  ever  these  wild  perils  brave  ? 

II. 

Are  there  not  waving  trees,  and  sheltering  bowers, 
And  pleasant  valleys  on  the  far-off  shore  ? 

There  might  ye  nestle  'mid  soft-breathing  flowers. 
And  rest,  untroubled  by  the  billow's  roar. 

III. 

The  countless  warblers  of  the  lowly  vale, 

The  wild-winged  songsters  of  the  mountain  rock 

Fly  to  their  homes  when  warring  winds  assail, 
Nor  seek  to  brave  the  tempest's  fearful  shock. 


314  THE    STORMY    PETREL. 


IV. 

But  ye  !   lone  dwellers  by  the  sounding  sea, 

Heed  not  dark  clouds,  nor  fly  the  -whirlwind's  might 

Ye  skim  the  deep  as  fearless  and  as  free 

When  the  storm  howls,  as  when  all  heaven  is  bright. 

V. 

Why  do  ye  thus  ?  Conjecture  roams  abroad 
To  learn  the  secret  of  your  mystic  way; 

Pale  Wonder  whispers  of  your  strange  abode, 
And  busy  Fancy  asks  why  thus  ye  stray. 

YL 

Are  ye,  in  truth,  mute  heralds  of  the  gale, 

In  mercy  sent  to  hover  o'er  our  deck, 
And  warn  the  mariner  to  furl  his  sail, 

And  timely  guard  his  goodly  ship  from  wreck  ? 

VII. 
Or  arc  ye  troubled  souls  of  erring  men 

Whose  lives  on  earth  were  marked  by  sin  and  crime. 
Doomed,  in  sad  penance,  onward  still  to  roam, 
With  flight  unresting  as  the  march  of  time? 

VIII. 
Whate'er  ye  are,  wild  wanderers  of  the  deep, 

There  is  a  lesson  in  your  bold  career, 
That  bids  the  soul  its  changeless  progress  keep 

'Mid  all  the  storms  that  darken  round  it  here. 


THE    PET    KABBITS. 

I. 
THE  breaking  dawn  is  lovelier  than  day, 

And  opening  buds  more  beautiful  than  flowers ; 
Thus  Life,  when  gilded  by  its  morning  ray, 

Is  brighter,  purer  than  in  after  hours. 

II. 
A  happy  child,  whose  joy-illumined  face 

Borrows  the  sunlight  of  a  sinless  heart, 
Is  a  far  fairer  vision  than  we  trace 

In  poet's  dream,  or  painter's  work  of  art. 

III. 
One  such  I  knew — a  loving  little  girl, 

With  pure,  pale  brow,  and  cheek  of  roseate  hue ; 
"With  golden  locks  that  waved  in  many  a  curl, 

And  eyes,  like  angel  eyes,  serene  and  blue. 

IV. 

She  used  to  sit  within  the  garden  bound, 

'Mid  blooming  flowers,  "  herself  the  fairest  there," 

And  call  her  troop  of  timid  pets  around, 

To  feed  them  each  with  tender  love  and  care. 


316  THE     PET    RABBITS. 


Y. 

They  had  no  fear  of  her — tho'  wild  and  shy, 
And  shrinkino;  ever  from  another  hand ; 

O 

They  read  the  loving  language  of  her  eye, 
And  hastened  gladly  at  the  soft  command. 

VI. 

Oft  have  I  watched  those  pretty  followers  press, 
Like  reasoning  creatures,  round  the  darling's  seat , 

And  each  in  turn  await  her  fond  caress, 
Her  tender  glances,  and  her  accents  sweet. 

TIL 

From  this  fair  scene  the  musing  heart  might  gain 
A  lesson  pure — a  lesson  sweet  to  know ; 

Thus  KINDXESS  ever,  in  this  world  of  pain, 
Can  still  the  heavenly  seeds  of  gladness  sow. 

VIII. 

No  living  thing  so  low  or  little  worth, 
But  feels  the  magic  of  that  gentle  spell 

Which  moves  all  hearts,  and  makes  this  home  of  earth 
Fair  as  the  mansions  where  the  blessed  dwell. 


AUTUMN    MUSINGS. 

I. 

How  summer  lingers  round  this  cottage-home  ! 
How  slowly,  here,  the  autumnal  changes  come ! 
I  watch  the  radiant  flow'retsday  by  day, 
And  fear  to  see  their  beauty  fade  away ; 
Yet  every  morn  they  gaily  greet  my  eye, 
Dressed  in  their  summer  robes  of  brilliant  dye. 

II. 

Out  on  the  hills  the  forest  trees  stand  bare — 
Their  unclothed  branches  shivering  to  the  air ; 
While  even  those  within  the  sheltered  vale 
Give  out  their  leaves  to  every  passing  gale. 
On  mount  and  plain  the  grass  lies  black  and  sere 
And  Earth  wears  mourning  for  the  dying  year. 

III. 

Fet  though  I  mark,  by  many  a  solemn  sign, 
Nature  fast  sinking-  to  her  sad  decline; 
Though  every  eve  I  list  the  solemn  sigh 
Of  wailing  winds,  proclaiming  Winter  nigh, 
Yet  still  that  dark  despoiler  doth  not  come 
To  steal  the  treasures  round  this  cottage-home. 


318  AUTUMN    MUSINGS- 


IV. 

The  purple  Pansies  planted  near  my  door, 

Smile  there  in  modest  beauty,  as  before ; 

The  scarlet  blossoms  of  the  clustering  vine 

That  wreathes  the  columned  porch,  still  gaily  shine ; 

Whilst  leaf  and  flower  coquetting  with  the  ray 

Of  the  warm  sun,  make  summer  there  all  day. 

V. 

A.nd  when  I  tread  the  garden's  peaceful  walks, 

Familiar  friends  nod  from  their  graceful  stalks ; 

There  golden  Coreopsis,  with  her  smile 

Of  cheerful  welcome,  bids  me  pause  awhile  ; 

And  modest  Heliotrope  sends  up  a  sigh 

Of  fragrant  greeting,  as  I  wander  by. 

VI. 

From  her  low  bed,  sweet  Mignonette  doth  fling 
A  balm,  inspiring  as  the  breath  of  Spring ; — 
Gay  China  Pinks  and  Asters,  here  and  there, 
Like  queens  in  costly  robes,  stand  proudly  fair ; 
"While  radiant  Marygolds,  like  suns  illume 
The  lowly  spheres  where  they  so  brightly  bloom. 

VII. 

These  smiling  favorites,  lingering  round  me  still, 
Attune  my  thoughts  to  Joy's  harmonious  thrill : 


AUTUMN     MUSINGS.  319 


The  pensive  beauty  of  these  Autumn  days 
Passes  into  my  spirit,  wakening  praise, 
And  fervent  thanks,  and  purest  worship  there, 
For  the  Great  Power  that  made  this  world  so  fair. 

VIII. 

And  when  I  turn  within,  it  is  to  pray 
That  thus  my  own  Life's  summer  may  decay ; 
Thus  slowly  change — thus  leave  around  the  heart 
Some  precious  flowers  that  shall  not  soon  depart. 
Let  me  not  pine,  if  wintry  changes  come 
Slowly  to  me  as  to  my  cottage  home. 


CECELIA. 

I  SAW  her  for  her  bridal  morn  arrayed — 
A  wreath  of  purest  flowers  was  on  her  brow ; 
And  her  white  veil  fell  softly  round  a  form 
Whose  delicate  proportions  well  might  vie 
With  the  bright  shapes  that  haunt  a  poet's  dream. 
Her  face  was  wondrous  fair — It  wore  a  calm 
And  spiritual  loveliness,  whose  hidden  fount 
Was  the  pure  mind  within.     No  need  of  words 
To  tell  the  passing  thoughts — The  delicate  hue 
Upon  her  varying  cheek ;  the  gentle  eye, 
Now  soft  and  tearful,  now  illum'd  with  joy, 
And  the  sweet,  flexile,  love-inspiring  lips 
Were  each  so   eloquent,  they  truly  spake 
The  spirit's  deep  emotions. 

Now  she  mused 

Upon  that  thrilling  moment,  drawing  near, 
When  she,  before  the  sacred  shrine  would  stand, 
And  speak  the  vows  full  fraught  with  bliss  or  woe. 
She  was  not  one  to  pass  with  thoughtless  step 
Into  a  new  and  untried  path  of  life. 
The  while  she  mused,  a  tide  of  solemn  thought 
Swept  darkly  o'er  her  face —  thus  have  I  seen 
The  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud  o'ersweep 


CECELIA.  32J 


A  flowery  field,  and  for  a  moment,  dim 
Its  radiant  beauty.     Soon  the  shadow  fled — 
She  had  but  paused  to  ask  her  heart,  once  more, 
If  it  could  well  fulfill  the  sacred  dues 
Of  wedded  life ;  and,  by  the  tender  light 
That  stole  into  her  downcast,  modest  eye, 
I  knew  that  Love  and  Hope  had  made  reply 
Such  as  her  soul  approved. 

Thou  art  no  cold 

And  vain  Ideal,  beautiful  Cecelia  ! 
I've  seen  the  home  where  thou  dost  live  and  love , 
I  know  the  hearts  made  happy  by  thy  smile  ; 
And  if  my  spirit's  earnest  wish  or  prayer 
Could  shape  thy  coming  fate,  that  fate  would  be 
Cloudless  and  lovely  as  a  summer  day 
That  dawns  and  dies  in  beauty. — But,  alas ! 
What  loving  heart  can  shield,  by  wish  or  prayer, 
Its  dear  one  from  the  inevitable  ills 
That  wait  on  human  life  ?     Ah  me !  this  thought 
Were  bitter  to  me  now,  did  there  not  come 
The  sweet  belief  that  virtuous  souls,  like  thine, 
Have  in  themselves  an  Eden-world,  whose  bloom 
No  power  of  Time  can  blight.     Then,  go  thy  way ; 
And  let  not  doubt  disturb  the  blissful  dream 
That  Love  hath  whispered  to  thy  gentle  heart : 


322  CECELIA. 


Tho'  care  and  grief  may  cloud  thy  future  lot, 
They  cannot  dim  the  sweet  and  holy  faith 
That  in  thy  spirit  lives ;  and  this  shall  be 
A  star  to  guide  thee  safe  thro'  every  storm. 


BOOKS. 


THEY  are  the  heritage  that  glorious  minds 

Bequeath  unto  the  world ! — a  golden  store 

Of  wealth,  more  precious  far,  thau  that  he  finds, 

Who  searches  miser's  hidden  treasures  o'er. 

They  are  the  light,  the  guiding  star  of  Youth ; 

They  lead  his  spirit  to  the  realms  of  Thought, 

And  point  the  way  to  virtue,  knowledge,  truth. 

Their  lessons,  oft  with  purest  pearls  inwrought, 

Wrap  shining  drapery  round  our  earliest  dreams, 

And  brighten  the  dark  woof  of  daily  life. 

They  lead  the  soul  afar  to  fairy  scenes, 

Where  enter  not  the  forms  of  care  and  strife — 

They  are  immortal ! — age's  pass  away, 

Yet  still  they  speak,  instruct,  inspire,  amidst  decay. 


A     PORTRAIT. 

I. 
HER  brow  was  fair — its  stainless  hue 

"Was  like  the  moon's  white  glow; 
While  here  and  there  blue  veins  peeped  through, 

Like  violets  from  the  snow. 
Now  o'er  that  brow  would  gladness  stray, 

And  now  a  shadow  rise, 
As  sun  and  cloud  alternate  play 

In  changeful  April  skies 

II. 
Her  eyes  were  dream-like,  soft,  yet  bright, 

Their  color  none  might  tell, 
For  now  they  danced  in  Rapture's  light 

And  now,  'neath  Sorrow's  spell 
They  drooped — But  whether  mirth 

Or  sadness  slumbered  there, 
No  other  eyes  in  the  wide  earth 

Could  match  that  matchless  pair 

III. 
Her  voice,  like  a  melodious  lute 

Woke  Echo's  sweetest  sigh; 
Her  lightest  accents  seemed  to  leave 

Soft  music  lingering  nigh. 


A    PORTRAIT.  325 


That  tuneful  voice  !  its  song  of  glee 

Entranced  the  listener's  will ; 
But  when  it  thrilled  to  Griefs  low  key 

'Twas  dearer,  sweeter  still. 

IV. 
Her  smile !     How  shall  I  seek  to  paint 

A  thing  so  wondrous  bright? 
As  well  might  artist's  hand  attempt 

To  sketch  the  rainbow's  light. 
'Twas  sudden  splendor,  like  the  rays 

From  Morn's  uprising  sun, — 
A  flood  of  glory,  whose  rich  blaze 

Dazzled  the  while  it  shone. 

V. 

But  that  bright  smile  would  pass  away 

As  quickly  as  it  came, 
For  tears  in  embryo  ever  lay 

To  dim  the  eye's  sweet  flame. 
As  lightest  clouds  veil  heaven's  pure  beam, 

So  would  a  trivial  thing, 
A  word,  a  look,  a  thought,  a  dream. 

The  sudden  shadow  bring. 

VI. 

She  ne'er  could  see  the  face  of  woe 
Or  list  the  voice  of  pain, 


326  A    P  0  li  T  11  A  1  T. 


But  sympathetic  tears  would  flow, 

Free  as  the  summer  rain. 
And  careless  words  from  lips  beloved, 

Or  frowns  on  foreheads  dear 
Would  move  her  soul,  as  seas  are  moved 

By  the  wild  wind's  career. 

VII. 
And  thus  her  heart  was  like  her  face  — 

As  changeful  and  as  fair ; 
Now  Pleasure's  sunny  dwelling  place  ; 

Now  the  dark  haunt  of  Care. 
But  ever  good,  and  pure,  and  true 

She  was,  in  storm  and  shine, 
'Til  of  her  wayward  moods,  we  knew 

Not  which  was  most  divine. 

VIII. 

For  still,  in  each,  her  soul  was  like 

A  pure  and  silvery  stream, 
That  mirrors,  in  its  faithful  breast, 

Alike  the  cloud  and  beam. 
It  might  be  sunlight,  Mulling  fair, 

Or  storm  shades  o'er  it  driven, 
Yet  every  hue  reflected  there 

"Was  still  a  hue  from  heaven. 


AMERICAN    LIBERTY. 

I. 

BORN  in  a  night  of  danger — when  the  cloud 
Of  dark  Oppression  gathered  o'er  the  land ; 

When  War's  fierce  thunders  echoed  far  and  loud, 
And  Death's  red  fires  leaped  forth  on  every  hand 

II 

Cradled  in  wild  alarm — when  Freedom's  foe 
Still  sought  to  cast  his  fetters  o'er  the  brave  ; 

When  glorious  deeds  but  gained  the  meed  of  woe, 
And  Valor's  self  seemed  powerless  to  save. 

III. 

Nurtured  in  sorrow — when  the  bitter  tear 

Of  wrong  and  suffering  dimm'd  the  Nation's  eye ; 

When  still  the  woes  of  warfare  lingered  near, 
And  still  men  struggled  on  to  "  do  or  die." 

IV. 

But  reared  in  hope,  in  happiness  and  light, 

And  cherished  by  fond  hearts,  with  loving  care, 

The  precious  germ,  no  adverse  storm  could  blight, 
Now  towers,  a  stately  tree,  surpassing  fair. 

V. 

Far  o'er  the  land  its  sheltering  branches  spread, 
Offerino-  to  all  earth's  weary  pilgrims  rest : 


328  AMERICAN     LIBERTY. 


Peace  smiles  serenely  on  its  sun-lit  head  ; 
And  'neath  its  shadow  man  is  truly  blest. 

VI. 

Millions  revere  the  hour  that  saw  its  birth ; 

The  world's  applauding  smiles  are  freely  given : 
Fame's  voice  proclaims  it  "ornament  of  Earth," 

And  Wisdom  names  it  "favorite  child  of  Heaven." 


"THE    LILY    OF    A    DAY." 

I. 

BEAUTIFUL  blossom — gift  diviue 
From  heaven  to  earth,  what  a  mission  is  thine  ! 
Tarrying  here  only  one  brief  clay, 
Yet  doing  so  much  ere  thou  passest  away  ! 
Gladdening  our  eyes  with  such  delicate  bloom  ; 
Blessing  our  homes  with  such  wealth  of  perfume  ; 
Filling  our  hearts  with  emotions  so  pure  ; 
Teaching  us  meekly  the  storms  to  endure  ; 
Smiling  so  sweet,  as  the  death-hour  draws  nigh, 
And  showing  how  calmly  the  sinless  can  die. 

n. 

Beautiful  blossom — the  baptismal  dew 

Morn  showers,  with  light  fingers  of  roseate  hue, 

Scarce  dries  on  thy  forehead,  ere  evening's  soft  tear 

Falls  silently,  tenderly,  over  thy  bier  : 

And  thy  birth-song  of  welcome,  that  festival  strain 

Which  birds  sent  so  gayly  at  dawn  o'er  the  plain, 

Scarce  faints  into  silence,  ere  night-winds  arise 

To  breathe  out  thy  dirge  in  melodious  sighs. 

Oh  !  brief  as  the  hopes  and  the  joys  we  hold  dear, 

Is  thy  sojourn,  thou  radiant  mystery,  here  1 


330  "THE    LILY    OF    A    DAY." 


III. 

Beautiful  blossom  !  so  pure  aiid  so  fair 
That  seraphs  might  weave  thee  in  garlands  to  wear, 
Let  me  gaze  on  thee  still  with  a  tear-moistened  eye — 
Let  me  blend  with  thy  breathings  grief's  tendercst  sigh, 
For  thou  art,  to  me,  like  a  symbol  or  sign 
Of  one  whose  young  life  was  as  lovely  as  thine  ; 
Of  one  whose  light  form  had  thy  own  airy  grace  ; 
And  who  wore  Heaven's  smile,  mirrored  thus,  in  her  face  ; 
Whose  heart  was  as  stainless,  whose  spirit  as  free 
From  all  earthly  blemish,  sweet  blossom,  as  thee. 
Her  name — her  dear  name — ah  !  we  breathe  it  no  more — 
Its  echo  has  floated  to  Eden's  bright  shore. 

IV. 

Beautiful  blossom  !  we  dare  not  repine 
That  the  life  of  our  Lily  was  fleeting  as  thine  ; 
For  like  thee  she  fulfilled,  in  her  short  sojourn  here, 
The  mission  angelic  to  bless  and  to  cheer — 
We  are  better  arid  wiser  for  dwelling  awhile 
In  the  breath  of  her  sweetness,  the  glow  of  her  smile  ; 
And  'tis  joy  to  reflect  that  she  drank  every  ray 
Of  the  warm  sun  of  Love,  thro'  her  brief  summer  day  ; 
That  she  faded,  like  thee,  darling  daughter  of  Light, 
Ere  the  chill  dew  of  eve  or  the  dark  frown  of  Night 
Had  saddened  her  spirit,  or  clouded  her  brow, 
Or  made  her  less  fair  than  to  memory  now. 


SPRING-TIME. 


"  The  Spring  is  here— the  delicate-footed  May , 
With  her  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  dowers." 

YES,  all  her  fairy  labors  are  begun  ! 

Out  on  the  hills  where  merry  sunshine  laughs, 

In  moist,  cool  grottos,  where  sly  shadows  hide, 

And  even  here,  around  our  city  homes, 

The  beautiful  and  wondrous  work  goes  on  ! 

We  watch  its  silent  progress,  day  by  day, 

With  pleased  surprise — with  ever-new  delight, 

As  if  the  lovely  miracle  had  ne'er 

Gladdened  our  eyes  before.     The  brightening  skies, 

The  warm,  light  showers,  and  balm-distilling  air, 

The  tender  grass  piercing  the  heavy  mould, 

The  delicate  unfolding  of  the  flowers, 

The  fairy  mechanism  of  the  buds 

Weaving,  in  cells  minute,  a  magic  web 

That  soon  will  clothe  the  landscape  far  and  wide 

In  wealth  of  waving  drapery — all  this 

Is  a  sweet  mystery  still,  and  charms  the  sense 

Like  the  bright  changes  of  a  pleasant  dream. 


332  SPRING-TIME. 


This  spirit  of  the  Spring  that  yearly  comes 

To  weave,  with  her  "  slight  fingers,"  such  a  rich 

And  radiant  garment  for  the  gladsome  earth, 

How  ceaseless  is  her  toil !     She  doth  not  pause 

Either  at  noon-tide,  or  at  silent  eve, 

Or  through  the  long,  still  watches  of  the  night ; 

But  ever,  like  a  brave  and  resolute  soul 

Devoted  to  some  purpose  grand  and  good, 

With  calm,  untiring  energy  toils  on. 

And  mark  how  gradual  all  her  gentle  steps  1 

How  noiseless  every  movement — how  serene 

The  onward  progress  of  her  mighty  task  ! 

Oh  1  zealot-men,  who  seek  in  vain  to  be 

Reformers  of  the  world,  will  ye  not  take 

A  lesson  from  this  "  delicate-footed  May," 

This  gentle  missionary,  who  performs 

Her  work  of  good  so  meekly  ?     She  but  breathes 

The  warm  and  vivifying  breath  of  love 

Over  the  world,  and  all  its  living  things 

Become  her  willing  votaries.     Birds  and  bees, 

And  tiny  insects,  with  their  tender  strains, 

And  bands  of  winds,  with  their  majestic  notes, 

And  waters,  with  their  flowing  cadences, 

And  Man,  with  all  the  pomp  and  power  of  words,. 

Unite  in  mingled  harmony,  to  sing 

Glad  hymns  of  worship  to  her.     She  but  smiles, 

And  lo  !  the  earth,  from  out  its  secret  cells, 


SPRING-TIME.  333 


Gives  forth  its  fairest  treasures.     Not  a  glen 
So  deep,  or  dim,  or  hidden  from  the  light, 
But  giveth  something  from  its  silent  heart — 
Some  tender  plant,  some  rare  and  delicate  flower, 
Which,  lifting  up  its  meek  and  lovely  face, 
And  breathing  out  its  brief  and  fragrant  life, 
Thus  pays  its  modest  tribute  to  the  Spring, 
And  dies  unseen  by  any  eye  save  Heaven's. 
Oh  !  sacred  are  the  teachings  of  the  Spring  ! 
When  she  unfetters,  by  her  soft  light  touch, 
The  ice-bound  lakes  and  streams,  and,  with  a  smile, 
Pierces  the  frozen  bosom  of  the  earth, 
We  read  a  lesson  of  the  magic  might 
Of  gentle  word  or  deed — and  when  we  see 
The  buried  flowers  rise  up,  to  bloom  again 
In  their  angelic  robes  of  loveliness, 
We  feel  our  immortality,  and  know 
That  thus,  when  death's  long  wintry  sleep  is  o'er, 
A  heavenly  Spring  shall  smile  upon  our  tombs, 
And  waken  us,  as  May  awakes  the  flowers. 


THE    RIGHTFUL    K  IX  GS. 


1. 
OH  !  who  are  the  crowned  monarchs  that  sway 

Their  subjects  by  laws  sublime  ? 
The  rightful  rulers  whom  all  obey — 
The  men  whose  words  move  the  world  to-day, 

And  will,  till  the  twi-light  of  time  ? 


II. 
They  do  not  dwell  in  palaces  proud, 

Xor  sit  on  a  gilded  throne  ; 
They  do  not  dazzle  the  wondering  crowd, 
Xor  move  amid  plaudits  long  and  loud  : — 

These  splendors  are  all  unknown. 

III. 
But  oft  their  palace  is  some  old  tower, 

Their  throne  a  mouldering  chair  ; 
And  the  sceptre  they  wield  with  resistless  power, 
Is  light  as  the  stem  of  a  fragile  flower 

That  bends  to  the  summer  air. 


THE    EIGHTFUL    KINGS.  335 


Yet,  oh  !  this  sceptre,  if  wielded  aright, 

Is  more  than  a  magic  wand  ! 
It  conjures  up  visions  of  purest  delight ; 
It  paiuts  us  pictures  celestially  bright — 

Sweet  pictures  of  fairy-land. 

V. 
It  raoveth  awhile — and  our  souls,  straightway, 

'Neath  floods  of  sorrow  are  bowed  ; 
It  moveth  again — and  lo  !  we  are  gay — 
The  bright  thought  chasing  the  sad  away, 

As  the  sunbeam  chaseth  a  cloud. 

VI. 

These  monarchs  of  mind  !  amid  want  and  pain 

And  weariness,  oft  they  dwell ; 
Yet  they  fashion  a  rare  and  a  delicate  chain, 
Whose  precious  links  are  wrought  in  the  brain, 

Or  forged  in  the  heart's  deep  cell. 

VII. 
This  wonderful  chain,  so  cunningly  wrought, 

It  stretches  from  clime  to  clime  ; 
The  world's  large  heart  in  its  clasp  is  caught, 
And  Humanity  blesses  the  magic  of  Thought 

For  weaving  a  bond  so  sublime. 


336  THE    RIGHTFUL    KINGS. 


Till. 
Ah  !  yes  the  child,  in  its  innocent  play, 

The  laborer  sturdy  and  strong, 
The  wise,  the  unlearned,  the  grave  and  the  gay, 
Alike  bow  down  to  the  pleasing  sway 

Of  the  poet's  melodious  song. 

IX. 

Long  life  to  the  poet !  the  only  king 

Who  rules  by  a  "  right  divine" — 
Who  can  ever  a  sacred  charter  bring 
From  that  starry  court  where  the  angels  sing, 

And  where  crowns  of  glory  shine. 

X. 

Long  life  to  the  poet !  he  reigns  supreme 

While  the  rolling  years  go  by  ; 
Though  monarchies  change,  like  a  changing  dream, 
And  thrones  are  buried  in  Time's  dark  stream, 

His  empire  cannot  die. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
1LOS  AJSGELES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-7,'54(5990)444 


>3\J 

;s^ 


1    /I///  -  c^/*^ 


2859    Poems  and 
S85A1?  ballads 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2859.S85   A17   1859 


L  009  600  402  3 


PS 

2859 

S85A17 

1859 


